Is it by moral deficit,
a sad deficiency of my humanity
or by a more desirable quality
that I find myself explaining the bare bones of death
to my two year old son
in terms of truth
and not by means of overladen
and subsequently meaningless metaphors.
I can not spill words of heaven
over his pliable mind
like the ridiculousness of holy water
or two pieces of wood glued together
to ward off evil- an abstraction
ironically, hysterically
maddeningly! man made-
like daylight savings time and monsters and morality.
There will be no delusions
of an uncharted utopian realm
too far to reach (sans effervescent wings)
which awaits the sinless (a word begging ridicule)
as if the dead are noble ambassadors of the living
and not in fact mounds of expired matter to be burned,
to gouge the land with long boxes full off nothing
but vain sentiment.
I find comfort in finality
closure
death is the end
and all other explanations
are absurdly
imaginative.
