Walls of Citadel

So what's the running hubbub--hot-toot's Shangri-la? Our fear of death's gone wacko. It’s crowding up the bar. Let's drink to obfuscation. Annihilation’s hip. Roll out the tequila sunrise. Go down with the black-sail ship. But could it be, O, could it be that we had just forgot, or we'd missed that day of Bio in high school's tommyrot? At work and seeming happy, our cells in superb supply-- exist but a day, others for a week or more, then die. Perpetual dying and birthing is the body’s oldest art. And so--which you is the You of you? Conglomerations of cells a-croaking in requiem symphonies of death? Or halleluiah songs of the lively new? Neither or both? Then there's considering the case of old Bob Kelly who, in his downward slide, one brilliant morning awoke to exclaim: I myself can never die! I just change and I fly! So when we're saddled up with terrors, believing love is far behind, or the Blues is all we're singing, and our watches won't tell time--we might recall that magical Kelly, busting the walls of citadel. And we could believe it true. Is fear of death and dying the most complete of any hell we can make? Now, enough with these concerns! Shall we take the drink?