Sloth

It might be the dawn
of the last day I’ll be alive,
or it might not. Grand apocalypse
or 
tiny personal demise;
I can’t say when either or both
may arrive.

I’ve read of 
many who have said,
“today’s the day,” then turned
their sick heads away
from loved ones
with a last resigned smile
and passed. Such
foreknowledge 
seems to come
only 
when that last day
is already very near,

and there are of course
the tales of soldiers diving into 
showers of demise who 
also predict such things, tales
of sailors on sinking ships
and pilots and passengers on 
falling planes, or in colliding
cars and trains, who do the same;

I cannot forget
to mention those
who choose, alone
in darkness, a path
hacked through dense pain
into that final peace
by their own hand.

All of these know
by choice or chance
what is coming,
but only just before
it arrives. I cannot see myself
slipping into despair
were I to somehow learn
the hour of my death
well before it came.
Instead, I like to think I’d fall
into the worldview
and mindset of a sloth —  

hanging for days and months,
perhaps for years,

from favorite places
in my personal canopy,
moving as little as possible,
being slow and sweet with a 
perpetual smile on my
changed and perfect final face,

dropping to the floor below
in one last fast moment
when it’s finally time
to go.

Advertisements

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

Comments are disabled.

%d bloggers like this: