Accidents: A Collection of Poetry

(untitled)

I met a lot of brilliant women on my way to Death,
but sadly, none of them understood what Death truly meant.
I asked one, "Do you know Death, do you know what Death is?"
She said, "Yes, yes. Yes, I know Death:
it is the ceasing of noise, it is the ceasing of breath,"

It did not take a lot for me to discern she was wrong
for Death is not silence; Death is a song.
It is the song that you sing on the pause of a threat,
It is the song that you sing on your way to your Death.
A song you sing happily on your way to Death.

And I thought I met a lot of brilliant women on my way to Death,
But none of them really knew what Death really meant.
I asked one, "What is Death? Do you know what Death is?"
And she answered, "All too certain: the snuffing of spark
the un-ending cold, the un-ending dark."

It did not take long for me to discern her mistake,
for Death's not departure of the warmth's sweet embrace,
It is, in fact, the start of the highest retreat,
Where there, in your sojourn, you work for your heat.
Death is a song, Death is a song. Death is a song one is born to sing.

And I thought I met a lot of brilliant women on my way to Death,
But none of them really knew what Death really meant.
I asked her once, "What is Death? Do you know what Death is?"
And she answered, "Please forgive
if I misspeak, gods above,
but host, Death is passion; host, Death is Love.

It is the die-ing of oneself into another, a thirst—"
"For one's practices affluent in another one's soul,"
I finished her sentence, in my surprise.

"That you knew none before, but yourself and alone—"
"And another, each other, have you Deaths in your cores."

...and I thought I met a lot of brilliant women on my way to Death,
But only one of them knew what Death really meant.
I am ready to die, I shall leave you with this:
What is Death? What is Die-ing? Do you know what Death is?

— A. P.