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,
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.