open letter to my mortal coil

Dear Death,

The drama of existence is starlight; this is what I learned  today
as I was talking with Emily (after
I read  her namesake's poem on the topic).

I told her how it reminds me of all the secrets I hate so much.
I told her how I deseperately want to know
what's wrapped in the box,
where you are when you are not here,
what dreams lie behind your faraway look.

Most of all,
I want to know where you live?
Who is God?
What's this hell going on here? What's the point?
Why the universe?

It is very annoying to be so merely human
no omniscience
no answers

The idea of my own demise is the niggling notion that nothing
ends, except me. conclusions hang eternally while i waste away
in some sanitized men's room. When my time is here,
will you wait for me to wash my hands,
step out the door and see

the famous curtain call? The stars
bother me as well. Will you let me lie on the ground
to see the zillions of them  blinking?
Oh dearest death, some are not even there anymore
they are but burned out, like the embers of nana's smile
and the smoke of her voice. so far away but still
we see them.

forever will outlast me, Emily said. I am the tiniest tiny, more less than a pinniest pinpoint. insignificant. pointless.

but, I am not the brain seeing the stars
they are the light seeing me -- is that consolation, friend Death?

I perceive, but not enough. is this enough?
a taste, a tease? a moment? then foreveris that the tale you tell
each weeping soul? Emily says,

the brilliant, shiny world after this one,
is the reflections of starlight --
the musings of the brightest souls -- and I see no reason, Death

To argue.

Love,
stephan