Sati*
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From the first quickening of life in your unknown mother's womb
you have been awaiting death. No less than I,
but you anticipate, embrace dissolution
like a fickle lover who dances into the circle of your arms
with light step to the pulse of your broken heart
and departs with another.
Mortal flesh at genesis must march inevitably towards decay,
from first step to first word and first strands of grey,
the first lines time etches into your face,
first catch of breath that will not come and every first after,
step by step into your waiting grave --
it is only a matter of time.
What difference, if you burn incense or weeds for light?
You are no porcelain saint, sitting in your shrine,
from lofty heights looking down
on the restless trivial tide of life and death below,
at every pointless step that leads to death,
waiting to be profaned.
No, if there is any worldly thing that needs be done,
It will be by your hand alone and stain no other.
The bitter ashes that you flick
from your cigarette will serve in place of innocent sacrifice,
every breath taking you one step closer
to our journey's end.
Let the heavens laugh until they must weep
cold tears that will drown all our petty disguises so
we become as one in grey grief.
Then purify desire with a kiss, believe we are no longer alone
from our first step into reckless love,
counting down our hours.
And you and I will end together thus,
wrack sanity, comforted in the alliance of our ruin.
I need no cigarette of my own;
I have never needed help or guidance in self-destruction.
The death you exhale comes unfiltered
from your lips to mine.
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*Sati is the practice of burning a widow on her husband's funeral pyre.
Comments, complaints, criticisms, cowpats, the usual, whatever, all are welcome. Occasionally I am overcome with the urge to write bad poetry.