this is a dying poem

      
     
     
we can only hope      
the mess      
calling themselves      
your parents, mentioned   
that you're dying      
yes, we all end up dead      
     
some people        
stay married through it      
others don't      
some do it      
holding hands with love      
others never experience      
the emotion      
     
there will be those      
who dance through it      
while many will      
never have heard      
the music      
move their body      
     
you'll find the types      
who consume knowledge      
and those      
who couldn't care less      
the ones whose names are      
forever embedded in books      
and the ones  
who don't even appear      
on grave stones      
     
some people will pretend      
it's not true      
as their eyelids close, breathing      
across time zones,      
tropics, and the equator      
   
if in their mess, they forgot      
I'll be the messenger      
that let's you know      
you're dying      
and the best you can hope for      
is that you don't come back      
to die it again      
     
     
-once is surely enough