Sun, 18 Dec 2005


dying days

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burnt out, trampled, bruised and scratched up tattered and shredded into bits was it dark purpose, cruel design as the daylight waned and darkness usurped the land that I was made against my will to face the dying and the dead made to be Charon rowing the rickety boat across that lifeless river

I will remember their lifeless eyes the heart still beating, the lungs still drawing breath but the soul knew no more, trickled out, evaporated in that final agony that is wordless the only cry a weak whisper escaping from my lips in that bleak despair of those sterile rooms the darkness of bitter morning looming outside the windowpanes reminding me that we are, in the end, just lifeless meat

I have mastered the art of crushing hope stamping out the sparks of miracles to offer nothing more than a peaceful death (but it is as I have always known it the dying may suffer, but it is the living who must bear it) send sweet nepenthe dripping through your veins and it is I who must remember who will whisper your name in the dark quiet night in the silence before dreaming in the space between spaces

It is the weeping of the still-living that wound me thousands of tiny needles and knives and the dreams and hopes of what might be shredded and mangled by cold, hard science the mathematics of probability and Time's unstoppable arrow even the stars are torn asunder, obliterated into soul-sucking darkness given enough time

Those final breaths, hard, and labored, the body, unthinking, still aches to live but all I can promise is unending sleep

It is in this quiet moment the cold silence of dark winter night hanging over me that I catalog the names of the dead whisper their names like a litany and pray for dreamless sleep.

21:46:03 18 Dec 2005 > /poetry > permalink > 0 comments


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