It is in our nature to immortalize.
Reify our god-ness, deify our emotions,
And every breathe that passes, must
Never
Die.
So we dream of books to write.
A scrap here, a piece there,
Rejoicing in the artistry, making
Picture
Frames.
It is a pain deemed necessary.
To know, to feel,
To make trauma the vocabulary, magnifying
Suffering
Souls.
So we call tears the crux.
The ****** is our pain, the sting of it all,
Death and loss not enemies; dear
Old
Friends.
It is sentimentalized.
The whole of humanity, the joy of bittersweet:
Call me a bitter harvest such as thee,
Let funeral bells forever ring
A dirge by children, for their mothers sing
A memorial in song for every thing
My heart is glad to finally sing
A wooing song for one like thee
But a better life for you and me
No game for two, but a crowd of three
What better chance for artistry
What prouder show of humanity
Than to have you stolen away from me?
If this is the sum of humanity
To suffer in such ways you see
Then begone with my humanity.
This I do not want or need.
Let
Me
Forget