(no subject)
Death is a coy mistress; she plays herself
like a debutant, dressed in a fine dress that
flows behind her like a cavalcade of hearses,
colored all dark and dim like a film of old
antiquity, delicate and demanding, cold,
conniving, calculated and extravagant,
with heels high enough to domineer over her
peers whom she knows know no equal.
She arrives, dressed like old Manhattan,
caressing the crowd with an air of cold
tranquility; her touch is like manicured
silk upon the faces of those who only want
their tears to matter in the wake of her
coming-but She insists on arriving late,
and Death, despite herself, knows no fashion.
Oh Grandmother, She visits you now too late!
Your home of old-world etiquette crumbles
like Rome, and your veneer of calm composure
wilts in Her absence. She has come too late.
Your mind splinters from anticipation into
vignettes of accomplishments made crude by
your feeble flesh. Pride, it seems, is a fickle
investment, and achievement is simply a list
of things to lose. All of your power is lost, my
memories of you as foreign as the places you've
been, as the things you've done-as foreign and
distant as the death you deserved.
Her car pulls up now, in the dead hours of
the morning, in an attempt to arrive at a
party thrown for Her, when all along, it was
supposed to be about you, and how Death
was the thief who took you, not the disease
that masquerades in Her place.
But Death is selfish,
and waited for us to call; and, to her
liking, in spite of those who knew and
loved you, we treat her like the
celebrity she fancies herself to be.
She dances Her virulent dance in splendor
as everything you were is made mockery in
response to her absence--this is the worst
part. Knowing that you had too much to lose
to die this way, knowing that these shallow
days will be my last memories of you.
like a debutant, dressed in a fine dress that
flows behind her like a cavalcade of hearses,
colored all dark and dim like a film of old
antiquity, delicate and demanding, cold,
conniving, calculated and extravagant,
with heels high enough to domineer over her
peers whom she knows know no equal.
She arrives, dressed like old Manhattan,
caressing the crowd with an air of cold
tranquility; her touch is like manicured
silk upon the faces of those who only want
their tears to matter in the wake of her
coming-but She insists on arriving late,
and Death, despite herself, knows no fashion.
Oh Grandmother, She visits you now too late!
Your home of old-world etiquette crumbles
like Rome, and your veneer of calm composure
wilts in Her absence. She has come too late.
Your mind splinters from anticipation into
vignettes of accomplishments made crude by
your feeble flesh. Pride, it seems, is a fickle
investment, and achievement is simply a list
of things to lose. All of your power is lost, my
memories of you as foreign as the places you've
been, as the things you've done-as foreign and
distant as the death you deserved.
Her car pulls up now, in the dead hours of
the morning, in an attempt to arrive at a
party thrown for Her, when all along, it was
supposed to be about you, and how Death
was the thief who took you, not the disease
that masquerades in Her place.
But Death is selfish,
and waited for us to call; and, to her
liking, in spite of those who knew and
loved you, we treat her like the
celebrity she fancies herself to be.
She dances Her virulent dance in splendor
as everything you were is made mockery in
response to her absence--this is the worst
part. Knowing that you had too much to lose
to die this way, knowing that these shallow
days will be my last memories of you.