On Dying.

I toyed with death as a teenager.
Tickled its tentacles,
terrifying myself and mother.
The art of how to wallow in the hollows of self worth.
Fifteen years later death tap dances around me
reminding me how powerfully it plays
(how foolish I was)
and how tenderly the human body bows to it.

I saw death visit my father twice.
The second time death never left,
and my father bowed with grace.

What is this skin, what are these bones?
Where did my father go?

Remembering the blue leather seats in his vintage Honda,
I heard my voice,
"Alec, I don't see myself getting old."
Such a bold statement
stills sits on my tongue.
But what is getting old?

What is this skin, what are these bones?
Where did my father go?

I am not morbid minded,
I am just ready to ask real questions.

Dearest darling, 
dearest friends
death doesn't scare me.
It confuses me.

Oh loyal one whose will is to save me,
how do we conquer dying?
Hand me your blood,
and be my bow and arrow.
Let's send death off on a trip to Barbados,
because I've always wanted to raise a puppy.