Poison of Mortality

A poem of death and freedom.

The air around us is a poison.

A poison of mortality,

Of death and of finality.

The air is a poison and time is its sidekick.

At first, we’re too strong, too healthy, too light.

We’re able to treat its scarring burns, from bandaids to braces and pills to compassion.

The poisons of mortality we can fight,

With addicting antidotes like hobbies and memories and laughter and passion.

But in a way, air and time is an antidote of freedom.

For the more we age, the less we desire to fight death’s choking grasp.

We cherish the memories and the love and the wisdom,

Fractures of the collected past in the small of our hands, rusting like brass.

But oh, how we are so tired, we plead.

Tired of the constant fighting, our strength withering away with passion’s beckoning,

And the idea of giving in feels oh so free,

The magnetic pull of mortality, the effects of its poison so light and so welcoming.

So yes, air and time is a poison of mortality,

But it is also an antidote of freedom from reality.