In daily dying to ourselves

In daily dying to ourselves
As we pain
Each day, each minute,
We get used to dying
And every death that comes
Close to our skins
Whichever is it
As there are many of them
At the end
Not a death that comes
Really matters.
And so the stress is gone
In fact, we start to welcome
It like a guest,
The invited one, we even
Ask it to stay
And be home with us.

Little deaths here and there
Each is real, nothing frightens anymore.
And death becomes
So boring so common so tiny to tinker

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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