Death's Fearful Cousin

I do not fear Death.

So are such words

Uttered from the lips

Of proud and mighty men.

And spoken of from eyes

That have seen Death,

Ministered for him,

And delivered him into

Weeping wounds carved

Bloodily by their hand.

So say the priests of Death.

The warriors.

I do not fear Death.

So says me.

Little me.

I do not fear Death.

For only he can satisfy my curiosity.

And when I am done with

This world,

I shall discard it.

Like a spent coin,

Exchanged to Death.

Such shall be my fee

For him to ferry me across the chasm

Of un-knowledge into

What I know to be a far deeper

And more real,

Reality.

But there is one I fear.

The eternal predator of all warriors,

Dauntless,

Unbeatable,

The humiliating foe.

I look upon those whom he

Has seized and I shudder.

My skin prickles,

And my throat pulses

In sympathy.

I look upon them, everywhere.

Their shrunken, creased skin,

Loose jowels,

Yellowing eyes, milky with half-sight,

Feeble strength,

Sucking on gruel through

Sallow lips,

Rotted teeth and

Struggled speech.

They walk like

Cadavers.

And everywhere they look

On me with envy.

I’m afraid to meet their

Gaze.

For if I do,

I might see the promise of

What I may one day

Become.

I do not fear Death.

The words sound hollow

Compared with such

A more frightening foe.

For at least towards Death

I can fight,

I can struggle,

There is meaning

And place and purpose and brief light,

But with this other enemy,

I must choke out those bitter words:

‘I cannot’.

I cannot fight him.

And those that try are pitiful,

And embarrassing.

They disgust me.

Against him,

My sweetness is turned to bitterness,

My victories soured,

Dust gathers on my soul.

My strength is eaten,

My passion withers on the vine,

My will to power

Becomes a carcass,

Eaten through by the burrowing maggots of

Time.

I will sit in an armchair

Made of fine leather,

And all around me will

Accumulate gold,

And silver,

Fine jewels and fine words.

But I shall no longer ride horses,

And wrestle strong men,

I shall no longer roar,

But wrap myself in the white robes

Of my long dead fathers

And wonder if I brought

Enough glory to them.

And my eyes will lose the light

That guides them,

And one day I shall reach for the

Fire in my soul,

And find it has abandoned me.

Then I shall weep bitterly for the loss

Of my oldest friend,

Rage.

The humiliating foe will,

With a smile,

Introduce an army of my betters,

In every-way superior,

Who will out perform me,

Out-muscle me,

And with golden shouts to cheerful applause,

Will drive me from life's stage.

And I shall go quietly.

Another ghoul added to the shadows.

And cold silence and loneliness of spirit,

Interspersed only by half-grasped ghosts

Of the past…

This shall be my sentence,

Meted upon me with malice,

As bitter punishment because

I dared to be great.

I can see him smiling even now,

Looking upon my withering form,

Maddeningly striking his gavel,

Shrieking with delighted laughter

As he distends his jaws to chew me

Slowly.

I do not fear Death.

No.

Media vita

In morte sumus.

But I do fear his cousin,

That monster,

More malicious and terrifying

Than anything ever

Loosed upon man.

His name is Age.