Garden of Curious Fates
Do bones chuckle at their own mortality?
Do they find comedy in the way God calls
them to the dust? Eternity speaks bitter
truths in riddles tucked between lines of, text like:
“The First will be last; the Last will be first”
Age cackles like a grey jackal in the bush
while life is a flame pursued by time’s winds
whose immortal gusts smite it on and on.
In the dying light of cemetery strolls
I hear old bones speak from coffins far below
like stand-up acts, they joke how they had to go:
One slipped on soap; another fell off his chair;
a third failed to see a bus veering his way
Their words make life seem so painfully feeble
like a vase distorted from its first accident
while laughter still dissipates from ash headstones
I walk through this garden of curious fates
indifferent to my own; still listening
to these loud relics as night’s curtain falls again.