The Dead and the Dying

Originally written June 21^st 2008

 

 An uneventful night at the Wynnewood bar with too many toos, too many beers, too many cigarettes, too old to still be living like this.

 Well uneventful until we passed the Paoli Cemetery in a perpendicular manor.

 A field of stone that houses my ancestors, all of them perfectly spaced and planted to await there physical resurrection and the second coming.

 Where by order of the full moon, and the assistance of the exterior lights, our passing reflection was cast in all of that solemnly polished granite.

 A reflection abstracted, yet still discernible

 We were reflecting their death and literal representation of mortality, and they our life and refusal to acknowledge such a notion.

 For that very brief, strange, and beautiful moment, the living and the dead reached across that eerie threshold, and acknowledged each other with indifference. 

Plant a Tree in Me

ESTHER SARTO, 'FOREST OF OBSCURITY'

Plant a tree in me

To feel the roots grow deep

The trunk stretching the skin

How interesting that would be

To stroll in constant shade

Observe the gentle dance of the canopy

Serenaded by song full birds

An experience I would not evade

To watch the lichens grow

Accepting the grubs that bore within

To carry this immense burden

All of this with spirits low

This is my blessing, and my curse

Were I to cut free this monolithic parasite

And be left with the sweet sad cavity

I would have the happiest wounds to nurse

Autumn is a Sweet Death

Autumn Tree

Autumn is a sweet death, it does not possess the love and beauty of spring, nor the life and tranquility of summer, nor does it possess the graceful slumber of winter, but a sweet retiring release. It is not like one who longs for death, like one who has gone through years of illness or morning, but more like a waltz that is gingerly coming to a close.

Autumn is like a loving migrant mother singing the last lullaby to her desolate child, she knows it is the child’s last song and soon hers will follow. She contains virtuosity, and strength, while failing her spawn in all of the material needs, she can swallow back her immense despair, and muster all that remains of her soul, everything that is left, and draw together one last sonnet, to ease the only thing that matters to her , to the other side.

It is not right, but when nothing is right in this world, it suddenly becomes condonable, and in a since it suddenly becomes wonderful. To find beauty in all of this ugliness, is truly the spiritual constitution of a Saint. To find the pleasant aroma in the delicate decay of autumn, is to truly realize, we all succumb to a sweet death.