Once again I write to you
As if you were a tactile, palpable and
Clear as day, beyond all doubt, under my nose…
Who knows? You are so nebulous.
You take aways my friends, my pets,
The window insects,
Ants, the plants. In fact,
All things the senses act on.
Without question, all things go,
And I don’t know them anymore,
A widow of and in life’s war.
Death-initely definite,
I contemplate and ruminate
About the nature of existence.
But it’s not a conscious presence.
I can go inside my present me
And try to stay there till the de- of -pression flees
Replaced by fleeting pressure
Where a happy hormone pledges pleasure.
At this moment, dishes cleared,
And bearing out into the day
Diverse and wingéd things that stay,
Not capable of leaving of their own accord,
I stop to write a plaintive word
Of protestation and an immature dissatisfaction,
Hence, I will go forth to hope,
Get up from whence the couch I’ve flopped
Engage the dopamine and soap
And carry on washing a cup.
I Don’t Like You Death (Again). A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Birth, Death & In Between III; Arlene Nover Corwin
