POEM - Omerta's Miasma

Rare is the ego of youth which stops

to consider that, perhaps, it won’t be

one of the lucky who live to see old age;

pain-free and loved

We, all of us, seem so certain at the start

that—in spite of death’s increasingly swift

swings of the scythe—we will be spared

And maybe what we’re truly hoping

to be spared from is the realization that no one

is spared on a long-enough timeline

Eventually, everybody gets cut down

to the nothing

This is where you came into the picture;

that lesson, still needing learned

  

You were dressed like winter wealth

It was nowhere near Christmastime

Clean perfume, and chewing gum

are what gave you away;

not that I minded

You were far from the first sex-worker

I’d bumped into on the night train

I was convinced your eyes were sparkling

because of some unseen hug made of drugs

It was hard to even consider that the look

was one of nearness to tears,

thanks to the way your bubbly aura

warmly laughed as we spoke

Only later would I realize that you rarely

held those conversational reins

You were comfort, down to my bones

And it still hurts to imagine what my smile

must have cost you

“If you can’t let her go, you’ll never know

if she’s holding onto you as well.

So let her be free; just don’t close the door.

And, whatever you do, don’t make it ugly.

…Hate to be rude, but I need to pee.

Thanks for treating me like I’m human.”

There was a quick screech outside the restroom

when your gun went off within it

Pathetically, I sat immobile in denial,

baffled that your scent still hung in the air

But that smell was immediately and irrevocably

linked to a corpse in my mind;

one with brain-matter in its minty mouth,

and powder burns in its hairline

  

You went by choice, though trapped in a mask

And it’s left me thinking that I should

break all of mine;

as natural life may prove too short

for the inarguable waste it would be

to stand beneath the moon, and pretend

that it’s Jupiter for the sake of

someone else’s idiocy (or, worse, my own)

So, as much as I might wish to see

the inevitable swoop of doom coming,

the truth is that few of us get to;

when we do, most wish we hadn’t

And rarest of all is the ego which owns

that saddle of demise

Thus, I now wish to be a rarity;

the kind which chews gum

as long as it can