Ruminating On Death

Age making me mull over matters grey, An old man's like a quadruped, say cow Ruminating on days gone as to how, How he'll be like not-too-distant a day? Death should sure be, but scarce a great venture, It makes me too ponder but seldom plan, And I belong to that let-us-see clan That hopes death to be no misadventure— Moored to machines, far from home, from loved ones, Ventilator and tubes and catheters As company, medics' parameters, And not the kind of death I dream, heavens! Me wanting just a passage ah in peace, O Lord, not once on earth a death like this! ____________________________________________________ Death is an adventure. But an adventure gets spoiled if too much planned. This sonnet worries if death turns out a misadventure— of a kind described in stanza three here. ____________________________________________________ Sonnets | 01.10.15 |