I say now death is an unacceptable superstition.
I guess this idea is natural
for one my age, but I'll be thirty sooner
than twenty five (when I'll be even more
untrustworthy than usual)
and the thought remains.
I don't believe it -- I don't believe death, applies to me.
It's effective and some I know
found it irresistible, but I won't let it have me.
I won't be stopped by a tradition.
In most stories where
someone works for love 24 hours a day without a break, like an ice machine,
he gets it for a minute and then it's over: it dies
(and often she dies along with it,
or it catches fire,
and sometimes, it can explode).
It may be satisfying
for you or I to pour out big
shots of his unhappiness from
a bottle with a loose cork (since
his happiness, undemocratically, makes only him drunk)
but you can't have it of me.
I'm giving nothing
to no one, and least of all to death.
I don't know what the dead ones said,
but maybe it didn't occur to them to say no.
Maybe they thought
it was a joke.
Or maybe they realized
denying death is a full time job,
and they weren't built for it.
Maybe they found retirement
unexpectedly compelling? Well,
I can't make you stay.
I can only say
I won't go.