Mors Vacua
He who dies naked
will wish an abode of breeze,
and sky,
and sea,
and peelings of earth.
And no reasoning would be disease.
He won’t be dying the death
of those who lose in a breath.
He will die of slow forgivings,
yet none would forgive his death.
After receiving the abode, he may lie
in front of the streets,
knowing all they die...
and so people would cry
quite often,
of happenings
done by the old scoundrel in the sky.
He may rest... knowing it all.
It’s all just empty;
and so is the empty sky.
If I met him once,
I would forgive him.
Not twice,
but thrice.
Maybe a fourth time too.
Again, the naked man would count each time:
how many words did I let him through?
So why not, naked man,
tell the world out loud
you want forgiveness from me.
You want it from each of the crowd.
Yes, scribble this, once and foremost;
you may die of a death heroic:
like in a war, or terrorist attack,
or saving lives
from aliens in a rocket.
You may die as soon as I said.
Naked man held forgivings, but no pocket.
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Poet’s Note
How does one measure regret.
Like the speaker... when would your empathy become tyranny if it’s kept on a leash ? (or is it already there?)
What mourning befits someone who dies off-script?
And would you ever die wanting... but never knowing if you were worth anything at all?
