by S. Lynn Knight

 

 

I think I shall breathe

of my coming death not one peep

my ego demands

a day of mourning, you see

You shall know not

of my untimely departure

through long-suffering nights

or the doctor’s nomenclature

‘Your days they are numbered,’

with deadpan stare he might say

on a prescription pad he’ll scrawl it,

‘incurable’ and unfazed

Surprise! comes the moment

from a disease rarely spread

Un-predicted; unannounced,

I’ll be 86’d, nixed, quite dead!

Therefore my ego

and I shan’t be robbed

of mourners and lovers

come hither to sob

My passing unexpected

with such haste I will go

and all will remark,

I was the bravest of souls

So you shall remain

in the dark, unaware

while I’m keeling over

on a park bench somewhere —

A note there, will be drawn

from ‘old Grim Reaper’s sleeve;

he’ll get a late writ

adding me — hastily

to his daily list of errands.

He’ll rush by me and breathe

thus, my passing will surprise

everyone, but me.

 

 


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