one day ill lay beneath the flowers
my soul blossoming outwards,
only to be compressed by the soil.
once more rejected, failing to love...
poor little me, won't know what else to do..!
but tear into themselves,
crying for all of eternity...
but they say that tragedy is a beauty,
which is why the flowers blossom
over my pitiful grave.
and isn't it funny...?
laughable almost,
to be the source of your own misery

death is a lover, asking for your hand in marriage.
run if you please, but escape is temporary
so won't you love, as the white flowers fall...
embrace death and the sweet hums of its call

As I look at myself dying
A secret. I'm not yet done
from keeping
It's not  mysterious nor thrilling
But a tragedy, that seems unending—tin🍃

respiring corridors
   interior hospital night

outside
                silenced
                         ­         the winter
away facing
                       patient pacing

    in palliative care
for the age-ed out expiring
     iterations of ejecting death
       darkly dressed haggy wet breaths
        beds engaged
          berths of great ferment

corridor ; raked in
corridor ; ridden out squalling

a patient who has yet to reach
   the concluding condition of his fellows
bellows
   'Shut The **** Up'
mad for sleep
he's lost compassion

The corridor labours on

Torches march alone
Deep inside the stone wall
That imprisons me.

A drastic change
Comes from the heart
Tearing strings
Like guitar picks

I’m dying,
Aren’t I?
Starvation fills my body
When I wake
Even though I had a full plate

Surely it’s not the
Sporadic over drinking
To chase a numb
Or catch a high
From ghost peppers

Why does this pain
Seem chronic
And more often
Than less recent?

What am I to do
But question the sky
And falter?
I know not of the answer.

The arrival of life
Something new is beginning
Before my very eyes
The world does not try to hide it
I’ll be replaced even before I’m buried
But I do not resent you
I’m not jealous of what I’ll miss
I’ve already lived my lifetime
And that’s all anybody gets.

My body slows
As gravity has it’s way with me
My mind is slowing too
Slowly the neural network is going dark
And with everything slowing down
What does time do?
It races ever faster
Our first day was longer than last week.

The page is turned once again
As a eulogy of winter is recited
While the weather outside steadily
Changes the season
As the sun seems to shift
Towards the North
Until it reaches its maximum height in the sky.

I see the leaves regain life
And flowers sprout from the ground
Blossoming the earth
With new shades.
The Vernal ground develops
As I can see the dirt slowly begin to give
Between my feet
As the ground in which I stand
Has no seasons.
Its nature is unknown
And already it rots at my feet
It’s as though even nature
Has an understanding
That soon is my time to go.

The French call an ******
“la petite mort” or “the little death”

tango with lips, teeth, and tongue
undress each other with our eyes
an unspoken agreement that
we’re both dying a little tonight