for me, this death

sometimes, I’m a husk
of empty husks
filled to filling in turn with
empty husks of
endearing loneliness
and cold emptiness

other times, my gait is charming
like that of a naive suitor
who knows not what suffering life
plans in his slavery ahead
I’m like that bumpkin
at other times: happy and gay

as any idiot with a dangerously
ephemeral gait may be

now, I’m just sad
and my companion in this
metropolis of sadness
is inward derision

and all these flowers that bloomed at
other times
wilt a billion times faster than
they were cultivated

then, all
the evasion of my
mind’s justice that I learned – all of it all that survival nonsense
must be unlearned in the now.
this now.. and I’ll die, die.

let my self down easy.
let my mind rest.
let the world be silent forever.

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