Ah, the old, old words.
Take the word: hundred.
Its origin is lost in the mists of deep antiquity,
And no one knows its etymology.
Anything you might read about it is just someone's guess.
Ask Isaac Asimov, in his book *Realm of Numbers*.
You'll have to ask him there, if you want to ask him anything;
Or in some other book or magazine or video clip.
For though he was one of Human Intelligence's great Lights,
He has slipped into the Night of Nights.
As I am now on the edge of Dark,
Where after much more pain, I'll finally slip.
To leave the realm of reality as we know it.  As of Asimov.
For though one's soul and mind might be the brightest of Brights,
The day must come for dwindling and the light goes dim.
No matter how burning and bright that last living spark,
The light goes dark.
The ancient words Asimov wrote of were far, far older than he.
Most of the words he wrote with were far older, too; excepting
The occasional neologism.
And just as in the case of all my predecessors and with him,
The vast spirit and light of my heart and mind is tied to the rind
Of mutable matter, expressed in mortal vulnerable flesh;
And I am incorporated in Ivan Ilyich's terrible syllogism:
The implaccable cold capture and languid logic of life and death;
And for me, the more terrible accelerated logic of deadly disease.
How many times I have cried to the heavens: "Please--
Not this way.  Not like this.  Let this not happen to me."
My little cry is a tiny expiring sigh, in the depth of eternity.
So I still face this fierce fate, and feel this tormenting pain.
Soon to be stripped of my memories and self, and consigned
To the blind unknown of timelessness.
Perhaps not, but my cries seem all in vain.
I shall be removed as callously as if I were a mere worthless stain.
Perhaps some of my words will remain.
Written words often, for long terms of treasured time, remain.
There, in his mind-breathed light, in his bequeathed words,
You can still find Asimov's breath of life and sparks of his mind,
And here and there find glimpses of his humor and his heart.
That is what he left behind:
When all he was within himself was forced to depart,
Into parts unknown, or perhaps parts nonexistent.
So, struggling on with my words, through the pain and fear,
I continue to write, connect thoughts, express feelings,
Knowing that when I myself shall no longer be here,
Those tracks and traces of my days and dealings
May still to some eyes and hearts and minds appear;
So, while I am able, I struggle on, persistent.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Joseph Conrad, too--that master of poetry in prose, with no peer--
In poetic prose--
For beauty and truth and meaning and feeling and thought--
Except, in some writings, Tennessee Williams--neither now here,
Except in the works of words they wrought;
Long after themselves have broken down into sets of last remains:
The pitiful remains of mortal dust or ashes, carrion and bones;
And the life-linked, life-lit words they left, for living eyes to read.
Words like drops of blood that still hold life,
When life's last blood must bleed.
How I wept for Boethius, in his *Consolation of Philosophy*,
Pathetically trying to convince himself of the indifference
Of his scheduled execution; killed for thought!  As some would still,
And some who still so kill.  Such inexpiable evil.
For every moment of golden life is infinitely precious,
Marching madly, whether sadly or gladly, in the mad impermanence.
Boethius still lives, in part, in his words.
I felt familiar friendship with Marcus Aurelius, who struggled to be
A Stoic, and vainly tried to callous up his deep self's sensitivity.
Through his kindness and his heroic struggles, in his Meditations,
Marcus  Aurelius taught so very much to me.
He still lives, in part, in his words.
So many others do too. My three great Alberts:
Albert Camus, Albert Schweitzer, Albert Einstein--
None of them first or last, but all best in me, gratefully, and lovingly.
They too, in part, live in their words.
Pablo Neruda. Andrew Marvel.  Christopher Marlowe. 
Emily Dickinson.  Sara Teasdale.  Sappho.  Edna St. Vincent Millay.
More names than I can name of those I love, who had to go
Before me, and yet who live, in part, in their words--in me--today.
Robert Frost.  Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  Homer.  Shakespeare.
They, and so many great Lights, are gone now, no longer here.
Philosophers and scientists and poets, so many, live in my mind--
In part--in their words--they are still there to know and love.
Many others of lesser brightness, too, in part, in words, survive.
So then I hope that perhaps I may also, when I have lost
My well-loved priceless life, and been to time's waste bin tossed,
That some of my spirit and mind and heart, in part, in words,
May in some meaningful sense, still be there in light, still be alive.
So--still tasting what joys I may--
Showing love to others and giving help when I can--
I am still taking time for writing--fighting through the pain and fear
That mars my magic, and maims my spirit, now and here--
I struggle on.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ah, let it go, I sometimes say:
Eat and drink and enjoy whatever pleasure is possible;
And, with some of my time, I still do that, I try to, every day.
Yet I am stopped by pain so often. 
And by the vision of my precious best friend Brian's coffin,
Where--as Anthony's heart fell with Ceasar's--mine fell with Brian's.
So I write of Brian, hoping to perpetuate beyond his pitiful fate,
The memory of his magical childlike heart and his love of life,
His kindness, his gentleness, his bright mind and heart of joy--
His heart that was made to suffer so much, by a cruel man,
Who seized Brian's last of life to destroy.
Brian did not leave many words;
I hope he will in part still live in mine.
And I hope I will live in part in my words too;
And long after I have melted into the last mystery,
Something of the light that shines in me will still shine.
In the words.
The old, old words.

==============================
Written by Michael LP, aka PoetWithCancer
aka (thanks to my dear friend Luna Marie) Mr. Poet
Written on Wednesday, January 25, 2012  2:59 PM PST
63 degrees F.   Humidity: 29%   Forecast: overcast
Copyright (C) 2012 by Michael LP.  All rights reserved
(Copyrighted for my estate)