Here We Are

Mortal only to others
And through the loss of others
We never wanted to lose,
We are immortal ourselves,
Unsuspecting otherwise
If we had never known grief.
The maniacal desire

To restore or resurrect
Or render impervious
Forever one's existence
Is not exactly self-love,
Not a wish to be a god,
But the reflexive horror
Of watching love disappear.

Those most obsessed with killing
Likely most fear their own death,
But those most saintly certain
Of their immortality,
Viewed as externally true
And justified by belief,
Have their own pathology,

I guess. We could imagine
A cellular awareness
Identical to the cell
In which it exists confined.
Then fantasies of escape
Would always have to be mad,
And sanity contentment.