Sarcastic death, ironic circumstance:
the wit may be divine but it feels mean,
undignified or futile, for the dance
the reaper leads is not a noble scene.
Or when it is, its rareness makes it so
as much as principle or sacrifice –
the gleaning gives the seedlings room to grow
and makes life precious at too high a price.

So maybe we like irony because
it parrots death, but we survive its sting.
We cannot overcome our natural laws
but we can try to laugh at everything.
And we can train our minds and bodies firm,
in hopes that we’ll delay the little worm.