day 1313

trust to lose, then, the requiem will sound like a waltz
only then, then is a linear pull, to right where I am,
translated to the point of no return, and pushed by the cycle;
we are like bees, waltzing to reach the end of our Roman tanz

trust to be, between the punctuation of birth,
and the traces that my death disseminates;
we'll be songs to forget, lyrics to regret, either the end or the beginning,
we are like moths, falling from the light at night's dearth

being then, is the then that continues...presenting, present, in present, presents, by virtue of a present, the present of our presence.
yes, we can't say no to life, because life presents herself as such, the woman to die or live for.
Every little step we take, every kick we make (in the woman's womb), we live to be present.
We, the presents of our mothers, the gift that poisons our present.

Why don't we, instead of then, think of us as dancers of one minute waltz, that in one minute of our lives, we discover, to our astonishment, that there has never been a present - hence no past nor future - but only us, in the catacomb of presence; struggling to be, trembling to speak, reaching to hear, and dying to see; and we will do well to negotiate with the one-minute construct, that it does not take any time to kill us. We kill ourselves.

trust to kill, the eulogy turned into a dialogue,
only after, when people gather to listen to themselves,
we'll once again be books to be read, returning like bees to the honeycomb,
where we will once again perform the final epilogue.

I, dance to my death, so I may live.