I wanted to be a poet,
so I creased myself into
a bright blue envelope,
addressed to the moon,
and asked the Old Man
His thoughts about how vast
mountain ranges are contained only
by the bones of his ribs.

And He sat quiet, opening His crusted,
ancient mouth only to ask
"Do you love him?"

I stared, doe-eyed and small,
as the stars dimmed their chatter.
My cheeks lit up like comet tails,
but He nodded His head,
shutting the half moons of His eyes,
not asking questions, or rhymes,
or reasons.

"Then why do you stare up
at the stars at night
when the brightest one
lies fast asleep in your bed?"

Beauty is pain, they so often say.
Well, okay.
Life is beautiful, they say as well.
Indeed, we may say.
But if life is beauty and beauty is pain,
Then is not life pain?
For my life surely is.
And is not our
Biological goal
To seek an end to the pain we feel?
But surely genetics have made us so,
So that we can escape pain.
Death
Is the end of life,
Or at least of this one,
On that all may agree.
And so if death
Is the end of life
And life
Is pain,
Then is not death
Our goal?
Is not death
The desired release?