For whom do we mourn when we weep to the witness of death?
’Tis the deathly departed…
Our own death imparted…
The desire wholehearted…
. . . . to be born when we weep to the witness of sobbing breath.
For whom do we plant our purpose beyond pure fated futility?
’Tis the beloved, ’tis the other…
As the Father, as the mother…
As the desire and the druther…
. . . . to plant purpose in a cake beyond pure fated fertility.
Delicately decorating the dividing hours sliced to diminishing memorial.
to signify
to dignify
to pacify…
the gyre of Yeats’ spirals since time immemorial.
And what if this cake — this life — cannot hold the promise to cohere?
And, then, this life — this cake — cannot hold the center, ’tis too queer.
Who is afraid to bake a cake?
Who is afraid to make a life?
Who is afraid to die a death?
This life has only one stage…
To make a cake, or two.
To make a baby, or two.
To die a death, or two.
to birth to baby to death…
to glorify to amplify to horrify…
Do you seek more?
This poem has only one page…
Nothing's Sacred 