life comes in places, it has times, structures
            like a good poem         it rhymes, has rhythm
            and is often pleasant
I have learned to love life, the ways I can rely on its features
            the way it is filled with creatures, pleasing to the eye and good
            for friendship,
but death is inappropriate, it is desolate, empty,
            I can never quite grasp it, rarely am I content
            in its presence
it is a question that is never answered in a simple way
            the words of scholars fall short, books say much
            but reveal little
it requires silence, and I hate silence
            it is more uncomfortable than the wasting of language
            a common fate, but yet uncommon
                        in that when it comes, it is utterly particular.