Live(Florida, september)

Stephen XT
1 min readSep 7, 2024

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Cicada voices sinking, soaring,
Into a new day’s sunrise.
I sit, nearly alone in morning,
and wonder over my demise.
Will my heart beat awkward, skipping,
Pain in neck and arm, then chest? Or should
Dread creeping killer, cancer,
Fell my cells until arrest?
No, maybe I’ll go from senescence,
Body burdened by the miles.
With all my affairs in order,
These written words in sorted piles.
Or will it come from food, a poison?
“..a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese.”
Can one know the fated hour,
So to make, their final plea:

“Release me of my sins and wants, and all this
Flora, fauna come. From years of being shaken,
Tossed, amid this mind of stutters, spun. Let me
Rest now with my forebears, or if there’s nothing
On that side, then let me be the quiet dust,
That stirs in storms, that need not hide.”

“No.”
The answer, not from Gods,
Nor Phantasms,
Nor Spirits deep.
From the mind’s hoard, intuition-
Our summed experience, sternly speaks:

“We wake to daylight, and for that reason
Should neither worry, nor should weep.
One greets a new life, should they find,
A fortunate return from sleep.

The sages say, in ancient tomes,
That death is not a fear we ought:
For when it’s absent, here we are,
And when it’s comes, here, we are not.”

© SXT — 2024

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Stephen XT

I write stuff when something begs to me to write. The goal is to write ten-thousand things before I die. I tend to be morbid, reflective and personal.