Death is not a cursed, bleak end.
No less holier than Life
which does give us birth
against our wills.
Should this be called mercy?
Lovingly, it devours immense
those illusory grandeurs
as conjured by Life.
It doesn’t coerce into being
existence unsolicited,
granting— endowing –
as if in good will
a sanctity so close to nought.
---
What in a life compels thee
to sink miserly into a banality so wretched;
to lose thyself in an aimless sail.
When death does come—
Embrace thee undoing with open arms.
A willful end weighs as much,
as an otherwise nihilist birth.
Truth be told.

“No life is more sacrosanct than its very own death.”

someone out there
is praying
for the moon
for you

It’s cold outside. Too cold to be considered a typical day in Florida. The night sky plays a familiar lullaby that surrounds my broken spirit and carries me home. The clouds are breaking apart into a pattern of transition and dissolution. I close my eyes and imagine my energy bouncing off the atmosphere of cosmic infernos and leading me to a new destination full of happiness and serene promises. The stars giggle at my naivety and shove me back towards the earth. I frown and try to grasp the Milky Way, but my hands frolic among nothingness and the moon light blinds my crying eyes. I begin to fall and images of regret and pain crowd my foggy brain. Not everything you see is what it seems, whispers The Moon.