Died of Absurdity 

David Sapp 

I think we all may agree, death, 
more often than not, is a silly pursuit.
However, if the task is essential, 
my epitaph will read,
Died of Absurdity.
Death came from the north,
the inevitable fall, a barbarian 
horde slashing at what’s sacred.
Death came as an ideology,
tanks clattering on the stones,
grinding the square of my 
quaint, European city.
Death came from a gun,
(We were unacquainted.)
a child’s bullet in a school, 
a church, a concert, a market,
an equilibrium of have and 
have not, loved and unloved.
Death came as the frailty 
and brutality of human nature.
No. Actually, my death was not so
tragic, no war, rape or plunder,
futility my cardiac arrest,
the ludicrous my aneurysm,
obsession my suffering, 
my noggin ineffectually 
grappling with the asinine.
My death came as a prisoner,
the torture like concrete poured
into my head: the petty minds,
the tedious repetition of agenda,
committee, meeting, mission,
the plans, the plans, the plans,
oh, so many good intentions. 
I endeavored to endure as a monk,
then fought, voiced, exposed
the farcical, attempted to excise
the bungling malignancy;
however, silence and speeches
were equally unavailing.
During my eulogy, one shook
their head, one shrugged, 
one listlessly mumbled, 

 David Sapp, writer, artist and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence grant and an Akron Soul Train fellowship for poetry. His poems appear widely in the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha; and a novel, Flying Over Erie.