The glamor of ending it all right now,
how sad for the survivors of your pain,
entering a dark alley of pure shame.
Grief explodes a watermelon on stage,
little to understand the question marks,
absolute horror around the corner,
might sound funny but it's not as the snot
obligingly runs out the nose with tears
reeling in sorrow at the funeral.
Organize your suffering into blame
for others to sort out as a process.
Ending it fast or slow, suicide is
not goodbye, the impact is forever
determined by memories rewritten,
indeed overshadowed by the terror
not of your absence but your intention,
giving weight to darkness, to dark matters.
If we the survivors of grief move on,
this negation without affirmation
affirms only the negation of love,
love lost to death, to absence, to sorrow,
love now unambiguously displaced.
Retrieve all these ephemeral moments
in our joy and sorrow, the suffering
gains momentum as if rolling downhill,
hurtling down a slope, an avalanche
tremendous in itself of emotion.
Nothing exists but emptiness, absurd
orders of golden-winged angels, heaven
wants nothing more of this wanton deathwish.
No comments:
Post a Comment