Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 2 (184.)

It’s not that I desire oblivion.
I just want to consign certain parts
of myself to the fire.
Out with the old, in with the new,
as they say.
To destroy the unnecessary,
unwanted bits
so only dragons and demons
rise from the ashes.
It is not a death, it’s more of a
reconfiguration.
Do these parts work?
What of these joints?
Are the bones all intact?
Doubt, fear, and despair
will be shrunk down, and atomized,
and kept in check as healthier doses
of themselves.
Their ashes will still float the body cosmic,
and orbit at semi-regular intervals,
but they will no longer be
planets of crushing gravity.
The near-death of these stressors
will cause confidence, joy, and creativity
to bloom perennially,
as wildfires clear the underbrush
to make way for sturdy saplings.
My forest will grow anew
thanks to conscientious, intentional, purposeful
destruction.

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