Prospect for Death
What would you do,
as a star set into the sky,
slip of a brush onto the blackness,
what would you do if you died?
As when I gaze upward,
what remains of death but for a word?
There's nothing left of you
but for the ray steering at the loon,
remains of a light
long passed yet only now arrived,
remains of a life,
inheritance of that which has flown by,
remnants from a soul,
scattered across as dust, spread amongst us all.
And from your vast and endless ruin,
ancient relics still ascend
and dance in spite of moonlight charring
losses from which you've been sent.
What would you have done, then,
if you had died?
Well, in my awakening collapse, my dear,
I would have sighed.