“What echoes in the void of a gun's chamber, poised at the head”
– the silencing of their countless voices howling within.
“What are the last words of a crimson blade caressing one’s throat”
– a haunting cutaway to a life now severed.
“What feeling envelops a lifeless body sprawled upon the floor”
– nothing but cold.

Does one merely attempt to compose their own funeral songs
– or weep a solitary tear for their own end, blinding themselves to
the haunting shadows of regret that herald their own downfall?
Does a fish, in a frantic bid for survival, strive to weep itself back
into existence, the moment it leaps from the depths, only to find
itself stranded? Are you familiar with the image of love's belly,
once alive with butterflies, now a dead man ensnared in a net?

The haunting questions of suicide linger like a ghostly whisper.
Can the choice to surrender to death ever truly unveil the answers
we seek? Do the celestial realms bear witness to our torment, or do
the infernal fires rejoice, growing ever fiercer with each soul they
claim?

Alas, it is only the departed who possess the knowledge of such
truths, and I shudder at the thought of being the one to unveil
such an answer myself...