A reminder of death (a reminder of life)

By fourth year Ostara Maharaj

You will die.

Your skin will cease to wrap your flesh which will fall off your bone

whose milky white will yellow by the whims of nature and time

Your loved ones will cry and mourn who you were and maybe even wish it were them

And then they will die too.

Between now and six feet under you give time to the noise around you

You may sip coffee to rouse your intellect

to absorb jargon or numbers or move your feet for a few hours

It will all pay off eventually,

you’re chasing “the good life”

we all are.

Or maybe you revel in another drink of choice

the one that burns so good

warms your chest like a hug

loosens the knots tied by a heavy week

and untangles them

into a dance,

or a kiss

They re-tether until the weekend comes by again

it always does.

You fill the spaces between sips with the clamor of past and future:

you anticipate what’s to come

you reminisce on moments, forever belonging to life already gone

you hark on your mistakes

you indulge in the no-longers and not-yets

and grow numb to all that is in between.

You forget that you too will dance with the macabre;

that your worries are fleeting

your woes soon forgotten

your past and present one with the ground when you lay your head to rest for the very last time

If your soul feels rutted,

your heart jaded,

your mind drowsy

from the gambits of living

Breathe in.

Hold it.

Know what it feels like to nourish your lungs and inflate your belly

Notice the waltz of your heart as it fills your every crevice with liquid life

Breath out.

When he comes, will you welcome death as an old friend?

You will die.

What makes you feel alive?