The arrival of a last goodbye,
during the birth pangs of a word,
fuddles the pen in my hand,
as the 'economic man' inside me,
takes over.
The story, left in the lurch,
struggles hard, wheezing to
make peace with
the final full stop - the ending,
the eternal ending.
Donkey years ago,
I began with death in my mind,
leading myself on through a boulevard
configured by fools,
'doing what I loved and loving what I did.'
The great escape is never on the cards with you,
but just a funeral pyre away,
or sometimes hyphenated to
the fickle story,
the one they've baptized as life.
