Our Last Session

“You have too much acceptance
Of your own mortality,”
He said to me
Pushing his half-moon spectacles down
To peer over the top
And tapping with the eraser-end
Of his pencil on the
Yellow legal pad
Filled with god-knows what:
Voluminous notes
On my sad, sad case
Or doodles of
Flowers and bunnies.
“People generally have to keep
A little Hope
Secure in their Pandora’s Box—
Some belief
That the things we do
Matter
To goad us into
Jumping out of bed
And making our mark
On the world.
Your attitude
Smacks of resignation.”
I guess he was telling me
To pretend.
I stopped listening
And watched the flesh
Of his face
Decompose
In a wriggly mass
Of maggots,
His skull fall
Into a heap
Of dust and ashes,
The walls
Around us crumble
Into rubble
As the world spun,
Species evolve
And go extinct,
The sun go black,
And the little rock we rode
Float aimless
Into Nothing.

About Mark Matzeder

By education a filmmaker, by trade an electrician, by avocation a writer and sometime scholar. Occasionally I wring an essay out of some observation I have made or experience I've had and share them here. Sometimes I'll share short fiction. Sometimes a poem. But mostly it's just my spin on this strange trip.
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