I'll never understand the flash of one's
last breath. . .
ephereral, an almost neglibible slip of air exiting the body,
then gone.
The breath of some, of course, must, after years and years of living--even dying,
fly away.
That I comprehend, at some trivial level akin to understanding
nursery rhymes.
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul
to keep. . ."
Or perhaps I only think I know. A hand grasps a fly swatter. I do not
grasp dying.
The young, lungs filled with fragrances from seedtime flowers--why must
they die?
Shouldn't diaphragms in callow chests move in then out, in then out,
over and over, again and again?
Enough dancing around flying exhalations! It's war and its squalid breath-
snatching, life-filching bombast I hate, its need to strike down the innocent,
generation after generation--breathing in and out, in and out, over and over,
again and again.
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