Propietary Dust

It seems old age has filtered in without so much as fanfare-- rapacious, unforgiving, feeding on my body everywhere like those precocious maggots standing by in ignorance, their bit of consciousness still unapprised of my arrangement with the crematory down the road. Ah, poor fellows, that you are, I have no fear as I deny your table in my final earthen home. Something I like of going out with fire... Something to refine my years of lust, my trust in paradise laid down upon my breath, and then dispatched in breathlessness at every spasm of creative power that I released for Adam's glory, or carnality. What then, do I bequeath to you? Not fortune, clearly, not subjective wisdom that you must encounter on your own. To you my hearthside chats with God are something alien that you would crumple and consign to flame. My love? Of course there is no doubt. No, I pass on to you that which was given me within my loins, and yours to be within that strange eternity that we address, and tremble that it lowers upon us all, beckons like a lorelei, makes food of fantasy, and of itself becomes the towering acumen that we breathe in the far estate of God. ~