on the waves of the wind
piloted the dotted sails of
an early monarch hued from
the yawn of the morning
concurrently harbinger and
psychopomp of summer
slumber. too early, too early,
I tell her, the moon has not yet
rolled back the tide but
the waves of the wind cease no
more than waves of
dappled foaming green
and the monarch, though
new to these waters
knows well her job
He’s gone. Gone. Doesn’t exist anymore. He did, but now he doesn’t. He did only days ago. He was talking about drumming and his dad. Now he is as dead as his dad. Both gone. Death is so horrifying. The ultimate horror from which all other horrors are born. Seems so cliche, but it was the first and will be the last. Takes everything. Existence is all we have. It’s all we are. To take that away. Make us nothing. The ultimate robbery. No other theft matters. Because everything else is made up. No other real possessions. Life is it. Existence is it. All there is. How dare anyone take it away. Anything. The universe. There are so many flowers and birds and their songs that it’s easy to forget how indifferent the universe is. We forget it because we have to. If we thought about it. The reality. If we thought about it we would never do anything because ultimately. Who cares. It’s pointless. Everything is pointless. Unless you’re famous you’ll be forgotten in twenty years, and if you’re famous maybe a hundred or a couple hundred. Thousands if you’re lucky. But then. Think about the library of Alexandria. The depository of all of human history up until that point, just destroyed. How many memories permanently burned away to nothing? Like second death. So maybe existence isn’t quite all we have. We also have the memory of existence, for as long as that lasts. Longer than a human life. In some cases. But not many. And once that is gone. Once entropy takes over and the universe fades away into empty cold darkness, what will any of it matter? Everyone will be forgotten. There will be nobody to remember. Everything will be forgotten. And then what. And then. And then whatever it was like before everything. Just nothing maybe. Emptiness. But emptiness is kind. In its own way. Emptiness doesn’t kill. It doesn’t steal. Emptiness is real. And it grows. Death is about shrinking. Subtraction. But once you subtract everything you are left with emptiness, which then grows. A beautiful little paradox. Everything is even, once everything is dead and gone. Nobody is richer. Nobody is more beautiful. Nobody is more talented. The great equalizer.