eviction of the mind
when we give in to fiction,
addiction, and race against time
I looked at her as she took her last few breaths
exhaling, “I wish…I wish” and shed a tear of detest
She looked at me and I saw her life through her eyes
blurred by asylum and whimsical regrets
that aggregated to a collection of apologies to herself.
With a constant concern for tomorrow, for retirement, for wealth,
for a subscription to glances into the future,
she left behind her love, her insanity, her laughter
to become a hunter of eternity,
just like the rest of them.
She forgot existence, presence, essence, and actuality
a side-effect of the plague of supposed vivacity
I looked at her, petrified in her death-bed
as she promised herself she would live death differently
and realized I too will die of this plague if I don’t seek remedy
in exuberant laughter, for the heck of it,
in casual experiences, for the love of it
in happiness, for self-remediation
in love, because what else do I have to live for?
The time continuum stops short of infinity
but as pawns, this is hard to grasp in its entirety
and when comprehension becomes laborious
we deny acceptance, enjoying a blissful, euphoric
ignorance, although with full awareness,
or so it may seem.