I want to climb on top of that flag-pole
And fling myself on the ground below
My body spattering among parked cars,
my blood mixing in the rain drenched street.
Sometimes that is all I want, to embrace
the end, to accept that this IS the end, although
it is nothing like I craved or imagined my life
to be. I used to think myself a fighter, yet
now I find myself giving up. All too easily,
the threads that bind me shredding away
one by one, as they did when you lay dying
one ragged breath at a time. You loved to say
“it is not the end of the world”. Then why
does it feel like it is? I must be one of the few
who think in sepia tomes of the past, who see
fire as freedom. There is no fire stronger
than the one that swallowed you, nothing
that burns as much, ashes cooled by mid-summer
rain. This is me moving on, alternating
between grief and release in morbid monologues.
I hope it rains tonight, I will howl
at the moon I will not see, I will rage
at the moon I know is there. And I will feel.
I will feel as though I’m talking to you.