And later in the night, death came for him:
Flying over the garden, over the compound,
Over the city, kingdom, culture, world;
Death came as a shut down of existence;
No hordes of Maia, no grumble by Gaea,
No snarling daemon, demi-sage or human assassin;
Death came as no grandstand, photo-opportunity,
Nor else as the climax (even anti-) of his life,
Or even of his last hour.
Death came to drain him of everything as he were a cup
Then sterilized that cup before casting it onto the brazier.
Always he'd expected to see death coming
But he slept through it, avoiding that responsibility,
Deadened yet feeling that visceral gnawing at his guts' dying
Not fully experiencing the numbing spread of inertia
As the botulin bacteria emitted their paralyzing waste;
And his body succumbed from the navel outward;
When it hit his bloodstream, he was all but gone;
Momentary pain followed by hours of numbed drifting;
His harboring eyes opened at the end, crinkled,
But were no longer able to fully smile.
And he ended, clean, empty of essence.
Always he'd imagined Something: Brief Glimmer,
Protracted Musing, Sublime Revelation, Reintegration,
Transmigration, Manumission, Internal Enlightenment,
Ultimate Power, Vacuousness. But he just ended.
