Death as Dynamite

Death shall surely come to all things alive.
From birth, death is a constant companion,
waiting, never far away, although we strive
to forget our journey ends in its blind canyon.

Imagine it as each newborn receiving a fresh stick
of dynamite. It’s nearly harmless, its danger low,
with condition pristine and stable as a brick.
Should it explode, it would surprise us so.

Throughout childhood, we remain scarcely
aware of this dynamite we carry with us,
so rarely does it fulfill its potentiality,
and then usually by accident befalling us.

In our third and fourth decades, we still
don’t often think of the burden we bear,
for it remains uncommon that it will
strike down one of our peers…so unfair!

But then, our stick of dynamite may begin
to decompose a bit, making us more aware
of the need for concern. We realize within
us resides the ability to extend life with care.

Our fifties, sixties, and seventies bring trips
to doctors, ever more prescriptions, increased
concern in nursing our dynamite. The heart skips
a beat at the thought of us joining the deceased.

Come our eighties and nineties and we find
ourselves unsure how much longer we’ll tarry.
The possibility of death is constantly in mind
due to the unstable dynamite we now carry.

For most of our life we simply ignore our plight --
we must eventually succumb to our dynamite.