Dum Adhuc Fluit Sanguis Vitae

Vital vita ebbs, an all-encompassing 

tranquility, an ephemeral parade, 

tick-tock tick-tock, gasps of exigency,

fading once vibrant pinks, laser-light fuchsias 

and neon oranges, buzz buzz buzzing to a palpable 

quiet, a vacuum of placidity and veneration. 

No birds singing, no chorus heralding, no 

beasts stirring or even waiting for the

vultures to swoop in, bearing superstrong 

immune systems to stomach all the horrors 

we've ever been or blamed ourselves for 

being. 

 

For each one, for all, the incessant din, 

staunch fervor of existence standing 

motionless, waiting for the bullet like

Chris Burden.  

One death, one personal demise, one

place on the board, no longer taken,

so hated in youth but so coveted in age

It is as though the universe itself has 

paused mid-motion. 

There is an inhalation 

of acquiescence, a doleful sigh, 

recognizing this inevitability, and the 

equanimity it brings. 

For each one, for all, the incessant din, 

staunch fervor of existence standing 

motionless, waiting for the bullet like

Chris Burden.  

All becomes mute and inert, the 

hushed cadence slowly withdraws,

there is a reverberating sigh pervading

the air, vital breaths escape

from our fatigued vessel, the stutter,

start. stutter, start. of dying.

As a process, a sound of capitulation in a

war we were never fighting, instead, rather

thrown into it hook, line, and sinker, 

without a moment's chance to go back, rather

evolution's absurd demand,  

a sequence of neurological dominoes falling,

one by one by one, where some become 

magicians, doctors, car mechanics,

serial killers or kings---models, soldiers, 

teachers, actresses, tech geniuses, 

politicians, judges, or shrinks.

For each one, for all, the incessant din, 

staunch fervor of existence standing 

motionless, waiting for the bullet like

Chris Burden.  

Some find comedy in it all by writing jokes,

some write songs, write poems, write 

novels, paint paintings, to express that

sweet last vestige of dissipation,

like an ephemeral echo, surrounded by a  

whirling, lugubrious silence. 

Silence for our loved ones, regardless

of whatever they thought might happen,

a peace for our loved ones, that we will soon

inherit, murmurs as if an immense burden has 

settled upon the atmosphere, taken from 

the backs of all concerned, no more

conversations had, no more that could've

been, as alone as we began, as alone as 

we will all end. 

For each one, for all, the incessant din, 

staunch fervor of existence standing 

motionless, waiting for the bullet like

Chris Burden.