Fred Aiken Writing

one day, i think you’re going to die,
but don’t think i’m getting out of this alive either,
because i’m not,
though maybe if we keep writing about death and the end and the inevitable and truth and power and sex and rage and happiness and fear and anxieties, then
perhaps,
though i’m not certain,
but perhaps,
there might be sour skittles left at the end of this trail,
and our last breaths can be the puckering astringency of artificially colored sugar
journeying down our digestive tracks,
as we die,
as i die,
but i’m almost certain that it was all deserved