When my heart tightens,
the whine of a theremin throbs
as the strings in my chest
start to pop, lock, and drop
And this sick beat slaps
as I swing my hips
and stamp my feet
and feel the face
of that which I fear
breathing on my neck,
nipping, biting,
blood oozing from the bore holes.
But my voice hums from the lungs
and as long as I have air in them
I will rattle a rhythm and rhyme.
If this is how I end my time
then let the last sound in my throat be a song.
No matter how long the pain lasts –
whether slow or fast –
Let me shout out a stanza or two.
If you were in my shoes,
would you go quietly?
Would you not make the world quake
one last time?
When faced with being ripped
from time and space,
our souls must soar, beaming
and the sounds we leave behind
must be gleaming.
We must not die screaming;
we must die singing.
(August 21, 2024)