Oblation

Death does not 
disturb me, nor fear 
of death. 
The architecture of age
has left space for more
than bone grinding 
against bone, more 
than to waste life 
alone in a house, 
waiting for despair to win
its wrestle with me. 
My blood is still young
enough to unfold 
the wings of my affection:
I will fly in the bright air
and let the exultant 
bitterness of life whisper
in my veins. 
I will tell all the stories
scratched in glyphs 
on tongue and memory.
I will not cower before death.
Instead, I will 
pour out ecstasy 
as a wine offering. 
Let it stream, 
the garnet flow arcing
from my cup, 
puddling in the dust 
at my feet, 
and let the gods 
hear me.