I don’t have a terminal disease, unless it’s called old age. But ‘I am getting ready …’
Of course there’s always this to consider: being ready to die is an illusion.
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I am 95 and that stereotype comes from all sides, and yes, preparation for death knocks on my door, and my answer is a change of lifestyle, health and major, daily exercise. Not as yours, burial in a desert to waste away. I am a body donor where my body parts will help extend the lives of some 50 persons. Isn’t that a better legacy for my children to remember me by?
The title of your poem could be “Shallowness”
The previous post from the 95 year old gentleman is absurd. So I guess or would have guessed he understands absurdity. Absurdity is healthy. The desert deserves a body just like anywhere else does. My old surrealist poet friend Ted Joans said he would bury all of his manuscripts in the desert if the University would not take them. This is simply going a step further. The courage to walk into the desert and leave no footprint behind. Even in jest. Yes Yes…I left my heart in San Francisco high on a hill…let the wind find it as the fog blows in! Great poem!
Ready or not, here we come!
The older you get, the faster the days go by. You see many more days behind you than in front. So, either you dream of the past or buckle up for the future, be it poetic or by deed….
A rendezvous with desertry – if illusion, must have come from the mind of a watchmaker to be so constantly engaging. Cut up, cut out, cut in. Wield that Mustill razor blade like Mary Quant to a skirt or, say, Kali to a desire.