Why do we revisit tragedy with tears,
Not from pain, but of humility
In the presence of unfathomable beauty?
What is it in our nature that draws us
To the striking perfection of the deadly,
To the impossibly smooth glossy blackness
Of the widow spider, the adrenalin bright X
in red that nearly glows like the bioluminescence
Of the deepest undersea monsters, the vermillion
Song that says, “touch me, little one.”
We forget, somehow, that loss is forever,
An abrupt cut in the ribbon of time, the rest
Thrown away, still wound upon the spool.
Is it the hypnotic desire to know the end
Of our story? Sucked into the tar like dinosaurs, or
Snapped and swallowed in the gullet of a crocodile,
Like the shivering Impala, gone despite all
Inborn, instinctive caution. Is there
A Shakespearian drama hiding in the drought?
When the rain won’t come, we are forced
To brave the marsh. We march, well aware
We approach a pool of death, as much as life,
But we’re born with an insatiable thirst
That demands relief, a voice louder than self-
Preservation. Compulsory or just compulsive?
We’re driven to the river’s edge, and for that
And that alone, the crocodile lives older than time.
We willingly crawl into death like a second skin,
A soft pillow at the end of the relentless daylight.