You will think I have no strength left
Barely breathing ~
Eyes clouded with the dust
kicked up from years lived.
I may want darkness, but not silence.
As I drift toward the River ~
The greedy boatman picking bones from rotting teeth ~
Waiting with grim impatience for my patronage ~
I shall fire up my will –
fan that pyre with the heat of my recent youth.
I will curse and ask for one last drink.
Let’s wrestle in the sounds and smells of my life gone by.
Not in silence.
Bring me music ~ haunting, shocking, pointless, poignant …
I think I shall like to drift away to something raucous and complex.
Fan the aroma of fresh baked bread and apple pies until the cinnamon and yeast , vibrant and powerful, waft throughout my dieing chamber.
Deny the stench of my decaying cells and chilling, slothful blood.
Laughter and children ~ squealing, teasing, crying.
Let them come with dirty faces and ill manners and
questions uncomfortable for mother’s to hear.
And dance if you can.
Be an accessory to my death.
Make it noisy. Bring the obscene.
And I shall do my part.