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Poem

The Last Consummation 

Hello. Good evening. Nice to see you. 
It is always good to have someone to talk to, 
especially now in my waning years, 
as Death is softly playing the piano in the next room. 
The piece he is playing is nearly over. 
I know this because I have lived a long time in the shadows. 
I have talked to dying faces many times, 
with the same quiet melodies playing in the background; 
they are like old friends who never change. 
They stay loyal and refuse to believe the lies being said about you. 
They speak up for you on your behalf, 
watching your back even when you’re wrong. 
Such apparitions do exist I am told,
as there are many who profess to have seen and known them. 
But I have not known any such person, or melody. 
They are mythical creatures that have thrived in a former age, 
lassoed in by the Sun God for an afternoon’s pleasure with tiny animals. 
These eminent beings who will stand by you when all have departed;
these are the rare honest ones, the decidedly wise ones, 
all proportioned with a gutsy backbone that is unbreakable, 
durable as the dubious winter grass at solstice time,
and as honorable as one’s bloodline amongst the masses,
Can you hear the million shouting voices?
They find deaf ears, and a million frozen stares,
in the last consummation.

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