One should go "gentle" into that good night -- but not silently.

You will think I have no strength left

barely breathing.

Eyes clouded over with the dust kicked up from years lived.

I may want darkness, but not silence.

As I drift toward the River –

The greedy boatman picking bones from rotting teeth—

Waiting with grim impatience for my patronage—

I shall fire up my will – fan that pyre with the heat of my recent youth.

I will curse and ask for one last drink.

Let us revel in the sounds of my life gone by.

Not silence.

Bring me music – haunting, shocking, pointless, poignant …

I think I shall like to drift away to something raucous and complex.

Fan the aroma of fresh baked bread and apple pies until the cinnamon and yeast, vibrant and powerful, waft throughout my dieing chamber.

Deny the stench of my decaying cells and chilling, slothful blood.

I shall like that.

Not silence.

Laughter.

Laughter and children – squealing, teasing, crying.

Let them come with dirty faces and ill manners and questions uncomfortable for mother’s to hear.

Not silence.

Your voices.

Loud.

And dance if you can.

Be an accomplice in my death.

Make it noisy.

And I shall do my part.