From my rotting body flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.
—Edvard Munch
An immortal beloved, dovetailed
wonder, cringing with decrepit grip
for one more crescendo—I remember
being a young thing when hearing
Whitman, reciting his verse, And
I will show that nothing can happen
more beautiful than death. E tu?
Does it occur to you that we’ve been
born in blood, also? That life is a
means to death—the passing second,
the paradigm shift into something new, is
decay? We feed this life entropy, yes—
undressing our layers until there is
no more body. Still believe our cries
countless is weakness? On your knees
curling into a fetus as you once were,
unto that fleshy shell, becoming
single celled by the sound of a cloister
bell. Is the end a means to
achieving singularity, the black hole’s
densest point, filled with the tightness
of matter & light? How delightful—
considering how much mana we’ve
absorbed up until that point, joining with
our feral kin when we dream of
garlands garnishing about our heads;
not this time—fall was the big bang,
when I was reminded of the boys who
bent my boughs, bowing low to
their climbing, those young men
crowned as kings as they held the taper
of my longest finger pointing to
Heaven, holding something sacred
without my diadem of leaves. Here’s
the fading flare, a mesh of despair &
richness, fulfillment of refraction
fragmenting & splintering designs of
an individual snowflake. At least we all
can say there will never be another
"me" or "I" to fill this trap, this laughter
echoing—whether a mock or celebration
the lows & highs of depression &
elation. I cannot stress out this speech
any longer. I belong there. Yes, see
that sun? Behind you, smoldering at
the horizon line among a pink sky…
Please enjoy the fruit that had fell
from me so long ago. Please grow.
Le Chêne, 1903
Edvard Munch, Norwegian painter & sketcher (b. 1864—d. 1943)
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