I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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The Dying Words Still Waited To Be Said

The dying words still waited to be said.

All time condensed inside the final breath

Where some may utter remonstrance or wit

Or grope with writhing hands the headlong light

For a password to immortality.

His calm demeanour indicates this choice,

Which strikes the bravest breast with rhythmic fear,

Was long since made, and will not be reneged

To simply prove the fiction in their fact,

Or to invoke an impossible faith.


“Who never saw the death brought by the dawn

Could never comprehend my dying wish,”

He told his gathered mourners as they sat

A circle round the tiny lifeless room;

A smoke-sketched wreath to place upon his grave.

The lines of age that layer his weathered face

Divide the memory from the dream to come,

And while the room runs hot and time grows short

The sweat that beads his brow is drowning hope:

A notion no more foolish than worship.


“If I were even half the age I am

And suffered from what knowledge I had gained,

Then all your god’s own strength would not suffice

To drag me to his mind-made den of thieves;

I would rather meet mortality’s scythe.”

A hush descended closer than the heat,

Their whispered shock recoiling at his words.

“But you did come,” he asks, “to see me die?

And would you go if I were to oblige?”

Through shuttered lids he senses a movement.