Dead-lines make us dance

I am going to die.

Not today, I really hope.

Inevitably I will it so someday.
Not this one,

I know, I can control that. Will. Be.

Able to stop the Time: why we write. Though,

all know, the endings are not ours.

Cracks in the porcelain grow-stress-lines

like faults at forty. At thirty, we don’t think

of meeting our match-in dem eyes. 

Now Ecstasy we see

helps alleviate the stress.

Chemically, elasticizes the skin,
that tightens in fear, out-looking grim,

youth is fear-less-ignored-immortal.

I’m-mortal-immortality?
How could we want more…

sublime with the time we have

had-enough time-time enough.

“Relieved of the burden of passion, and freed from the pressure of desire”

Sounds serene, quiescence, in essence, is nothing left to say

any other way.

Sleep. Sueño.

Nobody stops to Thank Death
for bringing these:

Dreams, drive, to do, be for, we go.

Dead-lines makes us dance.

“The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.”
-Edgar Allan Poe

Image of painting by Thomas Pollock Anshutz [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Little Ms. Pants on Fire

My black jacket with the fur-rimmed hood
whispered in my ear yesterday,
that one day
we will go live in the snow.
Although, we don't talk much,
since I live near (warm) San Diego
(now) it has been cold
so we've been friendly lately.
Then, when
I was having dinner
with a lemon verbena candle
the other night, thyme on the table
I read something interesting,
which actually gave me quite a fright-
but the candle jumped in and uttered a spark,
'You wont die in the dark-
and it wont be from fire,
those words were written by a liar!
Tho', idle fears, I have years and
I don't necessarily think so-
acrophobia,  arachnophobia and pyromania.
Fear, Love and Webs, scary things
to get tangled in.
To things I harbor like hobos
And as I begin to listen in
to assorted precocious objects,
threadbare trinkets and baubles that pop
I harbor like lazy houseguests,
I still hear the ring of fear
in the old quaking clock
five-fifty-five-tic-tock
five-fifty-five-tock-tic
I was told
this fateful mortal time
I accommodate and appropriate,
still chimes in my head.
My watch has no comment,

it's face, expressionless
and lays like a remora, leech.
I proceed  with today anyway

as though I too, 

have no need to know
such sagacious

miscellaneous things

such as where, and when, by how

I will die, not now

from animated things with no eyes
who see my future
and how it
lies. 

Composed 1/18/16.

Image by By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.