Primal

I try to not think about death.
Because despite what some heavy souled
artists, poets, masters of perception and deception say,
it's not a glamorous thing.
It's not an aspiration.
But sometimes, it creeps in- not quiet, not loud.
I think about my last words.
I think about the color and fabric of the blanket
that'll tie me down to my deathbed.
I don't want to die, but that isn't to say I fear it.
I fear becoming a recluse, I fear people hating me.
But death, death I do not fear.
Ants die. Plants die. God incarnate died.
But sometimes I get this sick feeling that I may not die:
that I'll be the exception.
That I'll be forever suspended in limbo; paralyzed and decomposing.
That I'll be conscious of the silence.
I reassure myself, though.
I say, self, you won't be the exception.
You weren't the exception when it came to love.
You weren't the exception when it came to love.