Death Comes

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If I should die, leave me here
In books, buried poems, last thoughts
For we all have the commerce to continue
Life, it will do well without us
That’s just the gentleman of Spring

Evolution with a smile
If I should die, live on as before
For I cannot help what I missed
Oh dear, I hardly lived if but for you
The final summer was not so unlike
The seasons that came before

If I should die, I’ve lived on dread
The danger of not living up to the self
The self that conjured up an identity
And some pet works for a while
If I never have children, then do not judge me

Strange that each one’s loving
Comes to nothing in the end
Sweet hours have perished here
And a heart divided by time
With room enough to ask the universe
If she too felt the thrill of the unknown.

11 thoughts on “Death Comes

      • Just a mere thought really. I believe that love is amongst other things creation and that creation is the action of love inventing itself and if we admit that creation is destruction then love is also destruction, whence the impression that love can be used as a tool in some mechanism used to playfully reinvent matter by alternately creating and destroying it, thereby creating and destroying itself

      • Yes I like how poetry can enter philosophy and even magnify our evolutionary motivations, like love, whose augmentations, forms and variants are endless. Shakti works in mysterious ways.

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