rebalancing the posthumours

If and when I die a young and vain and horrible death,

let them know how it was, with me. Let them know how it is,

let them see.

Tell them it was beautiful. Tell them it was illustrious.

Tell them I slipped and fell on my head and was dubiously concussed.

Tell them that falling in love is a stupid and pitiful thing.

It's not a thing for lovers; it's a thing for haters, a noxious sting.

We must all act shakespearean when we enter the empyrean,

as we are all bowing, letting death have its day.

We are not killed like animals, not purged from the flock.

We are not drifted like boats, unmoored from the dock.

We process in human certitude with noble fashions bright and rude

for we defy this death its anonymity as it denies us hardship's comfort.

Eventually, we like to drown in the knowing that we are now feeling bad.

We hate to imbibe our own very mortal fallibility.

But it's true. It might be a solace. We must believe these struggling strides.

We are always weak beings in need of help; the hurting and the smarting is just how we know.

We must signal, pain epigraph, disharmony's beat.

We are also, always, amazing people. Our achievements are just how we know.

We cannot believe selectively. We have to need our pain.

When I am crying, indeed let it soothe me. Let it toothe the lion of my soul.

When I am trying, indeed let it waver. Let its resilience come to fruit.

I can tell myself anything. I listen no better than the next.

But that is just how they know. That is just how they hear me.

Let me hear me, hear ye. Let me always be strong.

Let me come to a point. Let me sharpen and barb.

Let me ready myself when the street sees me scattered, no further than the absence of a temporary posture.

Gone afield. Don't just yield. Cash the chips. Take a sip.

We really are still here, still here. We stay. We sigh. We soldier.

Let me work myself. Let me lax myself. Let me rile and go off the tracks, myself.

Let me take myself to new and old places. Let me master the dimension of reversible time.

Let you be to yours. Let me be to mine.

Let me be my trembling self, all the time.