I. the end of days like some irreverent foot that with one mismotion destroys an anthill, and so the beauty of this world and the beauty of you will be lost confined to a memory rife with inconsistency
II. that the tiny spark of hope of faith of desire to grow will sputter in my palms despite my cupping hands against the wind and I will sink below the depths I am
III. that when I bare my soul, I expose my mind and the utter nakedness of my intentions come to light and I will be known
IV. death and its cousin omniscience: do those who loved me see me now? Will I watch you love another when I leave?
V. knowledge, for knowing the truth invalidates inaction
VI. ascension, for I am unworthy on my own to rise, and who will catch me in my meteoric fall?
VII. that we are all but endless and eternity whispers to us in our mortal state reminding us in echoes that our heartbeats are merely countdowns.
Groan again your siren song--oh!--it comes in broken weakened waves. Once you licked my neck like long-departed loves, now you sell yourself to other pity-ridden men. I still yearn for glimpses glimmers anything. Squinting at the aging sun I strain my eyes to catch the stars masked by pale blues, smoggy greys winter rains, blinding rays--but won't you wish your heart upon me? Won't you trace my jawline with your lips? Your delicate fingers, sultry eyes-- remember me. Make me feel pitiful again.
He strides like stepping over shattered glass his twig legs make two tiny wakes and he finds his spot outside the eddies in the slightest sunbeam beneath the willow where he shudders his beak and blinks blinks slowly blinks until his eyelids no longer lift and deep within his secret place he finally withdraws.
Imagine yourself a linear expression of experience, a long ***** of film like the kind in old projectors with the sepiatic sputters and flickers-- yes! Imagine yourself a ***** of film but rolled up messily like the earbuds in your pocket or folding fitted bedsheets. You are a movie and the filmstrip endpiece lies at your feet, you are knots and coils and tangles and if you were to lie down at the top of this mountain for a moment--just a moment!--perhaps the wind would catch the loops of film and you would feel yourself unravel.
Please bury me there--right there--in the shade of the sycamore where the sand will never dry. When you carry me down feel the river rocks they groan and grate beneath our weight. Bury me shallowly so that someday if the rains return the water will swell and find the strength to carry me home.
So this is how the dreamer dies, like awakening--- a vague and fading recollection of the yesteryears and the sleep sinks around the backside of the eyes where it haunts the mind in mirror images. The vividity of living fades to grey and all is calm, all is monochromatic. And so the dreamer dies, like falling back asleep.