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Absent concupiscence no longer grieves me not

cause I practiced abstinence
(when absolute zero hedonistic desire) 
abstemiously sublimating any 
twitching dormant hormonal secretions
toward crafting poetry or prose
including an exceptional
double entendre bon mot
one of which usually interpreted
as risqué or indecent.

Now welcome to my prevaricated life,
where once libido took a kamikaze nosedive
courtesy the side effects of
one or more of
my nine prescription medications
taken for social anxiety
(once near debilitating panic attacks

No matter death stalks so close...

among the cornucopia of living beings
(in my unprovable opinion
only because said stealer of qi
flourishes all around and within us
from our first to last breath),
and particularly self evident
when violent homicidal
and/or suicidal crime portrays
barely recognizable corpse
as horrible and gross,
or even if natural old age id est
courtesy senescence understood
as the logical precursor
we human beings as rational creatures,
nevertheless experience shock
and emotional trauma,
when natural chronological order

After I die...

nobody will cry
cause yours truly opts

for cryogenic sleep (or cryosleep)
even though my soul
severely limited to transcend very high

nevertheless these lovely bones will lie
and affect a peaceful repose analogous
when Bluto (the nemesis of Popeye)