Dying

Dear me,

I am dying soon,
After a series of ordinary 24-bit days.
There might be a wedding.
It might be love.
Achievment 2.0.
Children. 
It's just a blink.

Y la Muerte is putting on a wedding dress
And contact lenses.

And the grandfather tick tok time
Left the yard; still playing blind man's
Bluff grasping
But the silent girl in the black dress wants to be found and kissed.

I'm not scared of lying back in a hearse with her
And tasting her braces,
And I'm not scared of worms;
I'm terrified of living a story that you could put into a two-hour movie.
Simple.  Meaningless.
Rememberances will always fade to ribbons
Like yellowed Gazettes and portraits
YOLO Eventually no one cares
This too, is meaningless, a chasing after the paper-shredded breeze
And to love and be loved.
Are we capable of such mundane miracles?
I am going to die and my breath isn't going to hold out
Much longer
What mystery?  
This cheap biting breath, stinking of immortality or
Perhaps it's precious, it's leaking
Tube spoke won't stop.
So why bother waving or wasting your minutes holding me.
The train is coming; it's not stopping.

You've got hourglass eyes building sandcastles and my secondhand on your
Hourglass waist is telling you lies and we're an hour past time breathing secondhand
Smoke in our trembling secondhand skins.
Slow down, you realize this could kill us, right?

Standing on a one track repeat
I can't tell if that's the tunnellight beep beep beep of alarm clock
Or the bedside pulse machine
Trailing off as I fall asleep
It doesn't seem real anymore.
Persik's baby fingertips stretching and drumming
Trying to hold.

Hold hold on.  I'm growing up.
It's not something I'm proud of,
Nothing to be done.
I miss the possibilities,
The present requires commitment.
The present requires all of me and there's no time for poems or friends or projects or daydreams
Or anything there's no time at all.
There's just unmetronomed heart murmurs and breath beats
Stealing a gasp against the sickle moon and the grasping Pacific
Smoothing a small pillar of sand back into
Shore.
Here we go round the prickly pear

I invited Jesus to the wedding, I hope
He won't be busy, I hope
He'll take the kiss for me.
Grandfather takes my arm, music starts,
I'd invite you too darling but there's not much to see.

Mole-like, I doubt my eyes.
Seedlike, I doubt my tries.
Sunlight, perhaps it's night.
They're throwing rice and the people are starving;
Altars are places for blood.
I pass out in the foyer and
Grandfather willow with his river arms wraps and
Suffocates me in the green and loam of his bosom
And the spectre screams because
He knows one day he will be real
A pop of alarms and air raids and empty graves.
And the bright light of a nuclear eternity
Will whitewash our shadows into the pavement.