It's weird when people you knew die.
Especially when you're young.
I'm not terribly upset though,
Death doesn't hit me like it used to, I've sort of become adjusted.
But sometimes I think:
I'll never run into them at the grocery store and catch up a bit,
They will never get married to the love of their life,
Or have children,
But I might.
By the time I am dying,
They will barely be but a memory
Deep in the brain of someone who knew them 60 years ago,
Someone like me.
How strange.

I can see the face,
Hear the voice,
But It's all in my head.
I'll never see or hear it again.

We were best friends.
You were mine
And I was yours
We were inseparable.

We shared dreams.
You had yours
And I had mine
But they were compatible.

We talked of the future.
You shared your ideas
I shared mine
But they were includable.

High school came around
You changed
I did not

When we were young
Your parents were alcoholics.
You would tell me your fear
How you did not want to become them.

But soon the darkness crept
It grabbed us both.
I was able to tear free
However
You were not.

We were strangers.
You didn't look at me
I didn't look at you
We were irreparable.

I finally reached out to you
Asked how you were
What you were doing
Fine.
You said.

It sounded like you were trying to persuade yourself
Not me
But before I got the chance
To ask how you really were
You took another shot of that darkness.
You took another hit of that darkness.

And I took another step back.

Please, don’t be shy- join us for the baptism and the requiem of both destruction
and creation. Bring flowers to both their graves; bring flowers to both their births.

Teeth corroded with a lust for madness, you smile, though tears
stream down your *****, thin cheeks. Trees, burdened with ripening
despair surround you, their tenants long gone and their leaves long shed.
All searching for life; all fearing their deaths.

There is an immense amount of beauty in the burning of an old
house, of old pictures and blurred memories. As this occurs, a paradox is formed, from the striking of a match,
to the collapse of a foundation, to the blackened snowfall of ash.
The creation of destruction, the destruction of creation. A flaming catalyst fluttering

downward through the muggy autumn air, a blazing, kamikaze
butterfly plummeting down toward earth. Drop one into a pool of regret,
which, unbeknownst to the world, is flammable. Let it lick and devour its prey;
let it paint the land red. And as you allow flakes of tarnished life to blanket

the ground, and the shoulders of your shirt, the divine intervention that is
creation is underway, and in the midst of destroying, you have created. Space!
What entity is responsible for such indescribable beauty. How wonderful it is
to look out and see nothing, all the while seeing everything. What a magic

it is, to see life growing within that very nothingness.
But, do not fear the fraying of man’s existence. Marvel at your creation.

Liberation of death! Confinement of life!
Insanity can be one sad, beautiful thing.