Nothing Personified
I have never thought of death.
Well, that's not true. Everyone
does at a time. A peopled perishing
if you will. We constitute it
with sickles or in a carriage
or call him soft names. Man
versus death; man conquers
this nothing by attaching arms,
ears, heart so it may feel its indifference
resonating like fingernails on fiberglass.
The great human figure, now
cyclical of its mortal fragility.
Were our endeavors false,
these simulacra, these apparitions
beset gaily on their creator?
Like a cement plant, are we
indebted to the dust made
by our hands, and fills our lungs?
All I know is
it's an inconceivable sadness to think
I have never thought of death.
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