The more we’ve craved immortality,
the frailer our existences have grown.
We’ve found newer names to call it,
to justify it,
hoping it would make us memorable.
We’ve forgotten lives
for dead legacies of an assumed afterlife.
We’ve killed our own
to feel better about the air we breathe.
We’ve strung imaginary words
to divide tangible geographies,
praying the world we’ve built will remember us;
as if it’s not temporary,
as if it won’t crumble the moment we turn away.
Immortality isn’t ambition;
it’s denial on drugs.
I’m a poet, take it from me.
I’ve had trees killed in the name of poetry,
as if words could ever save
a convict on death row.
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