Sparagmos

Sit in a cafe.
Anywhere. Just look.
Everyone's dying,
Most obviously
The feebly grey-haired,

But also the lined,
Middle-aged faces,
The tired young parents,
Even their baby,
Fat cheeked and bright-eyed

Looking around so
Synapses are pruned
Appropriately
And the right cells die.
We emerge and fade,

Never wholly not
There before, never
Wholly not after,
Except to ourselves.
Here I am! Going!

Sit in a cafe.
The gods will eat you
And everyone there
Bit by bit, alive.
That's how you're alive.