my version of death is better than yours.
it stops just where it let off,
the running out of gas,
flame dying out,
reaching to lick the end
of the wick. singed out
and retired for eternity.
it’s best only to be reflected
on and thought of as
something, anything.
but here you are on your pedestal,
flailing your arms out from under
your robe authoritatively.
if you’ve got a chokehold on life,
there must be none hereafter.
it’s a pity that for you,
reality will only arrive when
your pedestal is the headstone
six and a half feet taller
than you.