As the title indicates, this was spawned during this live performance. I don’t obsess about this but as I and you age we are one day closer to our death. Christ is the answer.
During Mozart’s Birthday Festival
The last act is bloody, however fine the rest of the play. They throw earth over your head and it is finished forever.
—Blaise Pascal, Pensées.
Is it finished as the doctor writes in the chart, “Hospice ordered”?
While she pulls out the last IV line?
When an SUV skids into a bridge column at 78 MPH?
Tonight, at 11:47 PM, as plaque breaks loose
and tumbles toward your brain artery?
We know “it is finished forever”
sure as Don Giovanni’s fate. Donna Anna shrieks
“Ah! This assassin has struck him down! This blood…
this wound…his face discolored with the pallor of death…”
Ponder “It is finished forever”
as when that hatchet chopped off the tip
of a left thumb three winters ago.
“It is finished forever.” Is this the question?
What if “it is finished forever” is not finished?
The question is “am I finished forever?”
Or will I hear soil whacking on the lid?