It's not death or dying am afraid to see.
but that I do not want afterlife to be eternal.
when my pale dead body is facing up, I want but nothingness to see.
I do not want consciousness to behold when I cross life's drowning sea.

Uninteresting when folks have death experience.
maybe they come back to comfort us that are here
explaining what is real, and not the confusing conjecture bandied on it's fence
or maybe injecting fear and setting our hearts at ache for the coming furnace.

One will say 'have no doubt, adios, my friend, be in panic.
there definately is a spirit world.
Their world is as realm as ours is to us tragedic.
we are the ones sleeping for they know what we do but not aware that what they do is percific.

The sadness overtook you Tyler,
my brother of the human realm,
unfathomable waters received
you,
my brother, once of the Earth,
its binding boundaries,
now the life of God's love eternal,
for my brother in God.

A part of me hopes that,
when I go meet him,
the devil will also be a too-much boy.

When he kisses me,
sickly sweet,
too hot, too much spiced honey tongue,
he’ll bite my lip on the first pass
and I’ll bite back.

This distillation manifesting in peculiar patterns
Swirling overhead
With eyes that track indirect and understated
Waves that come to slight heads before
Dissipating, I've yet to see them
Break

And there's an agitated dash of nature still
Lurking deep
In blinding, binding, ever present light
In color schemes
That this changing property offers still
Strange it seems
In calm neurosis, slipping through the deep
Brings such panic

A rhythm imprinted in this form
An engraving of the time that passed
Not my friend, no not my friend at all
Such panic, oh such panic
Oh, whatever it is I hold, I've held some time before
What I release, I do so of my own volition
A half truth I'll see myself beside

As I lie still, eyes wide, glaring at the ceiling
As I die slowly, effortlessly, can't stop my head from reeling
Hollow victories
So preoccupied with afterlife; the only meaning I can see in the cyclic thoughts
Entirely dependent on what I can become

I lay on my back
I stare at the ceiling
Winding my mind up
Thinking in patterns

Down on the carpet
Listening to traffic
Grasping at ghosts
Feeling like static

Nothing is concrete
But this feeling so lucid
Demands that I try
To bury myself in it

To become a mold
Static like an image
To hold on this pattern
To hold on anything

Sometimes I want to die.
I'm not sure what comes after.

Grandpa says we're reborn amongst the stars,
That maybe we'll live on Mars.
I wonder if the sunrises would be just as colorful,
Or if the sky will drown in the same rusty red as the ground.

It's a recurring thought; the ins and outs of it all.
I think about it almost as often as grandma says she regrets keeping us.
That she should have let dad's family raise us to avoid all the fuss.
And that last bit stings.
It used to be my character was just like his,
The slap to the face I'd get for correcting her in front of others.
Now it's remorse for the life she led and throwing punches without the proper covers.
Bruised knuckles are better than split skin and sometimes the thought of getting caught is enough to stop a robber.

《》

Sometimes I want to die.
I'm not sure what comes after,
But Heaven would sound a lot like your laughter.