This Can't End Well

Oh, I suppose it could.
We all clutch tales of those
Who left the rest of us
Behind them, peacefully
Composing their last words
We're hoarding, memento

Memorabilia.
My grandfather was one
Who seemed to go nicely,
Age eighty-five, at home,
In bed, asleep, the end.
That's what Grandma told us.

But we know it's not so
For most. The cottonwood,
Gnarled and broken, hacked down,
Animals torn apart,
Accidents, homicides,
Protracted diseases,

Excruciating lives.
No wonder we supply
And fortify ourselves
With so many stories
Of happier endings,
Miraculous ascents,

Dreamy eternities.
As humans, we observe
Other species' word-free
Lives, naive, innocent
Of foreknowledge of death
We imagine just ours.

But look how all creatures
Strive, tremble, and struggle.
If anything, we're those
Beings uniquely lost
In fogs of denial.
They know the end. We won't.