Twelve

To write a sonnet in this day and age
May seem to some an almost wanton waste
Of ink upon a page. Yet still we rage
Or rave, lament or praise, in haste
To make our present offering to the sun
Before our time, too long, too short, is done.

The chub chub chubbing of our throbbing heart
Will some day stop. And then? And then we know
Not what awaits us as we end, and start
To find the start, or end, of all this flow,
Ten, twenty, seconds after our last breath
Shall we be wiser or be nil with death?

First we start showing signs of wear and tear
And no more feel like rolling in the snow.
Then we begin to realise that we’re
Senescent and have not got long to go.

Are we aware we can’t remember who
We are? Does it require great fortitude
To live ataxic and aphasic through
An un-anaesthetised decrepitude?

And yet there are some very very old
And frail creatures who look content and glad
To be just where they’re at. Their hands are cold.
They’ve almost shed the life that they once had.

At least one blessing of extreme old age
Is that soon, soon the bird will leave the cage.

Sometimes I think it is a rotten deal
For human kind to have to live within
This flesh: often against our will to feel
Its perturbations and eventual ruin.

I’m grateful to have got thus far.
May what’s to come be not too fraught with pain.
I’ll bless the Lord and thank each lucky star
If I don’t have to be Abel or Cain.

A painless healthy happy comfy death
Is not presumptuous at least to ask.
I hope brutality and ugliness
Be not what lingers on my mask.

The pen slips out of icy finger tips.
No words of wisdom come from dead men’s lips.

He put his hand on my shoulder.
He looked me in the eye,
He said “Do you really respect me?”
I knew he was going to die.

“Of course” I said. “Believe me”.
I was quite prepared to lie
There could be no other answer
To a man about to die.

In fact he didn’t really
Die for a long long time.
He simply very gently
Went out of his tired mind.

He couldn’t even remember
His name, or the date, or me.
It’s called senile dementia
The nearest he came to be free

To live our life’s the great adventure: fit
For any hero. Nothing else can be
The meaning of our absurd mystery.
We’d like to think that there’s some benefit
Somewhere, to something, someone, to the All,
That we’re such sacks of comic lust: or good
For us that we are thus.

          At least we’re food
For worms. However spirit fail, the call
Of death’s a reconciliation for
Our flesh, its contribution to the feast
Which we partake of. Eater eaten, beast
For beast. From dust to dust. No less, no more.

We can be sure of death’s utility,
Whatever we’ve accomplished of futility.