In my time,
we do not have to die.
We can live forever
if we’d like.
And before you ask,
yes, we choose the age
we wish to stay,
and no, we aren’t alone
in our eternity.
Family and friends get
the same deal.
If you can
call it
a deal.
Deal implies
loss
or negotiation.
But we’ve
conceded
nothing.
Now,
I know
what you’re thinking-
what’s the catch?
There’s always a catch
in your fables
of immortality.
The madman
gone madder,
the fallible human
turned
time-hoarding
being.
But please believe me
when I say
there is
no catch
here.
No concessions or
ill intentions.
No irrationality
or fear.
We are clear
and eternal,
gracious and paternal
to those of us who
choose to go.
And some do
eventually decide
to leave,
closing
the curtains
on their own show
with decisive dignity.
No agonizing
decline,
muddled brains,
or opal eyes.
Just warm
goodbyes
and acceptance.
We do not need
to believe
in heaven
when fate’s cards
are neatly stacked
in our palms.
Indeed, we’ve become
something of
our own gods,
letting the sun rise
and fall
on existence-
deities forged
by omniscience.
In the absence
of religion,
we are the
careful stewards
you mortals
simply
could not be.
See, in our fables
of ephemerality-
forced departure
turns one clumsy,
death-spun,
and greedy,
heading
no warnings
of calamity.
Your deal is,
in fact,
a deal
and a poor one
at that.
Cards stacked
in some
divine palm
so say your prayers
and sing your psalms.
No calm-
all storm
for you
it seems.
Sometimes, though,
we do wonder
if your transience
lets you dream
wilder when
you slumber-
if constant fear
of sudden loss
lets you
love deeper-
if your food
tastes richer
when any meal
could be your
last supper.
But our wonders
are just
blunders.
Yours a case of
sour grapes.
Decrying what
you can not reach
as immoral,
wicked,
base.
pm poetry 