Of Immortality

Soon, I shall live to see the moon fall

from its seat in the sky to the dark ground;

or I will live until I am a thousand years old,

stripped of teeth and a working jaw.

Though it may not be immortality,

I shall make it worthwhile and everlasting,

a life devoid of issues, a rare possibility,

snatched from the Book of Dreams,

or a body of fantasy;

there is no argument for reaching such milestone,

except for the hoc ergo propter hoc of logic,

the cause and effect syndrome of life.

If this happens, the other must follow.

If I eat buckets of yoghurt or sink seas of wine,

practice elegant steps in the ballroom 

or have a stress-free marriage,

I shall be on my way to immortality,

free from the frothing failings of this world,

into the amber of endless happiness,

where despair shall see the back of me

and disaster scampers from the front of my door.

Never mind my lack of the right genes

endangering the gradual decline of my body,

my desire to never cease to exist

will overcome the deficit of my spirit

or question what makes me human and fatal.

Never mind that death is all I know

that adds weight to the value of my life,

but if immortality is the goal of my birth,

my living is like the standing of a tree,

a pleasure to the streets and grass, 

filled with the burden of boredom.

Soon, I will end this constant adventure

about the fate of my soul when I die,

if death is no longer part of my legacy,

and I slump into this yawning hole

where I will become absolutely nothing.

The moon can quarrel with the stars

but I will not be there, a worthless witness.