What It Means to Live

Life is too short.

The mailman wipes his brow on the sleeve that had clothed him
For over twenty years. His sweat mingles with the tears that were
Once shed by his co-worker, (now his wife) and it is bittersweet.
The writer crumples his thousandth piece, and begins to write
The novel that would take the world by storm once again.
There are those who continue to reach for adolescent dreams;
Childlike goals of the childish, and fail.
Because of a choice made late, a missed step, a time waited on.

But, I, would like to die, should deaths be stars':

A silent explosion, like the end of love or of lovemaking,
Of cosmic dust and light
That I had gathered in my heart from a lifetime
Of observing men with dreams, and watching them fail,
That would seep into the hearts of my neighbor stars
Setting them on a fire as if they themselves were in love;
Being one with theirs until their time comes -

A bright orgasm and then a sudden darkness
But the world continues to see us flare.