Nearing my deathbed, I'll let my hair grow, even as the first frost seizes the tomatoes. Everything, even life, is a synonym for death. I'll let my grey hair explode from my head like illegal fireworks. Boom! Boom! Boom! I'll be fire and smoke in my hospital room. I'll be furious, furious at God for taking me from my wife and sons. My defiant hair will be blasphemous. Who cares about a pristine afterlife when living is a joyous mess? I'll be a manic wren building his haphazard nest from twigs, string, plastic, grass, moss, hair, and pages from the King James Bible. I'm liable to commit any sacrilege. My hair will serpentine. I will not acknowledge the priest who is called to deliver my last rites. I'll insult the yellow sun and curse the moonlight. I'll lash myself to my bed with my hair. I'll battle until the end. My war cry will be my death rattle and vice versa. I know that I'll be frail. My skin and muscles will sag. I'll be just hair and ribs. Yes, when death comes for me, I know that I'll be weaker but I'll still make mortal fists and attack the Grim Reaper.
“Living is a joyous mess…”
Genius
This made me laugh and smile, such a great expression of so many things
“My war cry will be my death rattle…”