I wrote a poem some time ago that resulted from me trying to stomach some form of revolutionary existentialism that I was dealing with at the time, which is now a mere picture—with caption—in my mind. I remember thinking, and being told, that it was one of my best pieces at the time, at just 4 incredibly short lines. It seemed appropriate to make it short, in accordance with my irrational fear of diminishing into nothing, as if the 19 years I had spent in this life had somehow met their limit and I was going to croak any second.

Well, that was a matter of perspective, as I curved backward, staring through the open mouth of a skull and down the spine of a Camarasaurus.

Here’s the poem I wrote:

Museum

Curious, our sudden

fascination with bones.

Statuesque, we were,

among other things, dying.

Yesterday, too, I encountered a new perspective. This time, as a result of reading a Billy Collins’ poem titled “Memento Mori,” which captures most of the original feelings that I had at the time, and twists them into lighthearted, easier-digestible form. I used to think that I wasn’t a fan of Collins, but I’ve recently come to realize that which draws so many readers to his words: connection. He is able to take many common thoughts and ideas that we encounter and make them magnificently profound, and he’s damn good at it.

Here’s a link to the poem: Memento Mori

Cody