Sunday Stew: Morbid Thoughts Of Decline

by Gabriella Duncan (Painting: Decay by Mednyanszky)

Will you poke 
me with 
a stick 
when I 
am dead,
as I lay
like the cattle,
on,
the frozen field, 
yet still warm,
on the 
hard
cold 
ground 
of winter?
While living,
with constant
reminders in
‘there is
no choice’,
while others
convince 
themselves
there are,
and only need
begging to get
them. 
Privileged,
get healthy
choices, 
the lessors,
get what 
others pass
on.
Pondering,
these things,
while watching
those,
watching
others, struggle.
This is a gift, 
so it is said.
Invited to be
the observer,
of struggle, 
struggles within,
struggles without,
all struggles,
pain is pain.
But we categorize,
ostracize and
alienate the poor,
ignore the less
than and are
unaware.
All, while knowing,
it may be the,
last time one
remembers
being warm,
as the observing
others, walk
away or stare
in silence.
All because,
‘saving themselves’,
from toxic people,
has become a dinner
conversation
cliche or vogue.
Sometimes,
there are no
choices,
but rather,
a series of,
chutes and ladders,
guides and prompts,
for the moment
in which stuck ness,
of the human soul,
suddenly renders
that soul partially 
unconscious,
all while
having the 
consciousness
to witness and
still ignore
its presence.
Those moments
of, now, 
those guides, 
will not be,
as altruistic as
the personal
souls of some.
Who’s ego is it?
Its devastating.
The contrast of 
witnessing various
stages of
suffering souls,
is nothing less
than,
devastating.
White privilege
therapy can’t help,
spiritual advisors,
avoid in fear,
or expected payment.
Some will name
favorite
assumptions,
like, pride, 
not
understanding
that when
adulthood,
begins in young
souls who loose
their parents at
early ages, no matter
the reason, the result
is the same.
Some are 
beautifully defined,
because, they had
no one to do so.
This on its own,
teaches us the 
validity and
contrast of 
a uniformed,
organized 
form of privilege.
The past reflects
upon the future
and its reflection
is perpetually
cruel for rare
and unique
souls.
Built in varied,
patterns of people,
is, only knowing,
to be your best
self, 
this brings
ego to light.
Some seem to
be put off,
and cannot,
tolerate,
self,
sufficiency
and suffering
in the same soul,
and constantly,
expect you to 
be broken.
What if you aren’t,
yet?
What if you became
a statistic?
Sometimes
the, I AM
just, IS,
self sufficiency,
waiting on the 
altruistic touch.
Waiting for the 
right choice and
the right time,
for the truly
altruistic hand,
that,
holds a gaze,
for those who 
wish to see the
face of the divine,
in the ones who 
claim
to have it most.
Choices, 
are not
choices,
when all you 
can 
compare them
to is,
which way
one would
rather die.