“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...

Accentuated notes flowing slowly as tears down a motionless face perplexing the spirit.
Impossible to comprehend even when it is expressed nonverbally the agony of losing in a year and soon in the other, one parent and then another, more precisely after his mother, his father.

Always listening...
Buckethead we can truly feel you,
yet never fully understand you.

In this dim night
before the dawn of All Saints,
no need to take fright
of the spirits you acquaint —
for they are merely the ones who went on before.

Beloved dead whom we miss
reenter the world of the quick
and blow us a kiss
with a treat but no trick —
as we celebrate their return from the dark shore.

The dead are still wriggling.

I thought I'd stamped hard enough
Twisted my heel long enough
Been vicious enough
To render their meddling
Null in their void
Enough to create them sterile
In their bequest
To bestow a double portion
Of pain.

I thought they were dead
And gone.
I was wrong.

In the darkness of the night, a soul does fade
Through the veil of death, it starts to wade
Life slipping away, like sand through fingers
Leaving behind memories that forever lingers
The breath grows shallow, the heart beats slow
As the final moments begin to show
The body grows cold, the spirit takes flight
Leaving behind a world of endless night
In the stillness of the room, a loved one weeps
As the reaper comes to claim what he keeps
A life once vibrant, now still and cold
A story left untold, a tale left unsold
But in the end, we all must part
It's the cycle of life, the beating heart
So cherish each moment, hold them near
For in the blink of an eye, they may disappear
And when the time comes for us to go
May we find peace in the afterglow
For death is not an end, but a new beginning
A journey into the unknown, a chance for winning.

Too many people take
The shortcut home; the one to make
Your journey
No more than thirty
Seconds shorter. It may
Be dirt now, your everyday
Pathway,
But I’d just like to
Bring you
To the past,
When this path was still grass.
When the lawn was green
And lush,
Before people’s needs to rush
Became more
Important than the lives on the floor.
Maybe if you just took
A look
On the ground,
Then around
You for another road,
Then the grass wouldn’t have the load,
The weight of your body on them
Once you step upon them.
Make a pass
On the grass.
Take a different path
To avoid the plant’s bloodbath.