We Die Little Deaths

We die little deaths every day
of which we are unaware
our eyes focused inward
gaze pulled down the rabbit-hole
of a two-dimensional existence that fools us
into swapping life for videos of life.

We miss Authenticity rearing back
on her hind legs howling in our faces
we miss her rapturous roar
her sweet-sad murmurs, her music
crooning in spring showers
beating against busy sidewalks
rattling in the distant clatter of trains.

Little deaths come along to slap down our hearts
wreck our souls in the loveliest of ways.
Anything can be a little death:
watching sunlight blow through a field of grass
crying your lover goodbye at the airport
slipping a few bucks into somebody’s jar.

It sounds mundane, and it is;
we’ve been dying since the beginning
and since then there has been sunlight
and human tears, and human need.
There has been music and rapture and rain
and the sound of distant trains.