Life Centric To Death Poem by Joshua Bantum

l.

I’ve seen death from within this cocoon,
This petite slit given to me solely,
My cave to view colors from, to touch sound, to feel words.
In here, I’ve inhaled dead crackling bark, smoke staggering in sight
from the sun cut clouds, by the rays far off.
I dwell in a cavern consumed by transformations,
Small as skin cells mixing with dirt, large as dawn concealing a used day.
I scribe pathetically with no choice, ink an extension of thought,
Thought an extension of experience, and thus
We are connected infinitely as magnetic polarities,
This death and I,
I, a progression of it, overcoming in life,
it’s inability to deteriorate all,
And I, eventually succumbing,
for I’ll grow tired, and peacefully will submit.

ll.

I’ve met death alone in my loosening thought of you,
A mound of sand matching size to the stone peaks of my mind,
Each grain a small exchange, a kiss given, seconds of us,
Blown into disintegration by time,
Turning to dust, to soil, to roots of roses, sweating oils, captive by wind’s silk web,
Layering stones, rocks and concrete.
I may not remember how we loved, but through this cycle,
I’ve been rebirthed by the reminder that I can love, and have loved.

lll.

Body of river beds, eyes of roasted chestnuts, lips
Moist of flower’s dew kissing my waking mouth.
These are your roots of perfection,
My father and my mother also,
Our eternal family that wish not hurt nor pleasure,
Not death nor life, not one or the other,
But both continuously, impartial of motive.

I witness death inside a plant being plucked excreting oils, soil relaxing,
a pig being stuck, the axe soiled in puss,
Myself masturbating, bleeding seeds killing timelines
kiss lapsing, meaning a friendship prevented from everlasting,
a call unanswered, cause your ears are used by another,
I am surrounded by death in this cave,
And the more I realize the joy of my own life,
And except it’s end,
The more I receive death intently,
And I accept it’s end as well.

IV.

A fool will romanticize pure ecstasy of life,
But cannot conceptualize death in any form,
And he is a liar,
Not to you,
But to himself, he is not living in a world expressing both,
But in his own,
With his back facing the door to the world.

V.
And so we are here, finally,
Now, lay palm within my palm,
Let us step within steps of past,
Let us break like others have,
Save our tears for the river,
So we won’t be alone.