The Going

I’ve died so many times in dreams
Too dark to speak. Always in a lover’s
Arms bathing in a stupid swoon that
Covers like a caul.
What is the point?
Why does there need to be one?
My lover in my dream is me,
Attracted in sleep to someone I
Can’t stand when I’m awake.
Great paradox, it shouldn’t warrant
Much thought, but I will over analyze
A rock until it is a dragon
Snarling, snapping breathing fire that
I feel in my always burning belly.
I grow another year, gently cold as the
Last one bleeds away with the scent of
Winter that I’ve tried to keep pressed
In the pages of my brain, but never quite capture.
I feel old finally
Not happily, but at last.
Bones ache with memory and
The damp.
Little white hairs like beacons
To everyone. They are my battle scars…

Today, my skin feels different, like
It’s not really mine, or I’m not really me.
Visiting this body just to see if all is well.
No hysteria last night, no dark and stormy
Dreams. I died peacefully and well.
No dogs barking at a frigid moon to signal
My departure.
You cannot stop the going no matter
How you try.
No cries of mercy to be heard.
I shall pass like the tingle of a touch,
The wetness of a kiss, Then I shall be
Nothing and everything all at once,
Comfort and pain.
Something soothing in that thought
Tucked under my head in blissful sleep.