I've committed quantum suicide
to exist in a coherent superposition.

© Matthew Harlovic

If you're going to be immortal,
what point is there to anything?

If you're going to live forever,
then there is no beauty in experiences.
There is no need to do anything
or to not do anything.

You can do something ridiculously stupid,
can ***** up everything,
but it will never matter.
In the end you won't matter.

You will exist on,
long after the record of anything
you messed up has crumbled to dust.

So, what's the point of living forever?

Why be immortal?

There is such beauty in the fragility of mortality.

There is such beauty in how
those under the boot of mortality can be so fragile,
yet shine so bright.

They glow to light life itself,
and, yes, the do burn out,
but they lived.

You, on the other hand, will endure.

You will exist.

You will never truly live because you'll never die.

The words she scribbled
were not about her
but still
they concealed a part of her soul
because
they were her horcrux !!
For all her life
she waited for someone
who'd read all
of her writings
to find her pieces
and put them together
to make her whole
but no one ever tried
so she lived
entrapped in her
horcruxes
as a prisoner of immortality !!

We will die to live on
In the sea of Memoria
That we shall sail unbeknownst
To the lands of New Gloria

There, strong winds and high waves
Upon our death we embrace
There, we are ripples in space
Frail and flimsy as lace.

I am a poet in love and you are immortal.

I savour how you smile at death,

And slip out of my coffin to please another in the darkness,

Like a child running from his mother’s lies.



I have imagined you next to me every night

That it does feel real.

You come as insomnia

As an old idiosyncrasy

As a drug

As the fire-maker;

Smouldering me till the moon feels weary;

Only to return on another night

To never kiss my scars

But to stone fresh blood spores in them,

To let the pain breathe inside.



You stand at the edge of my bed each night

To run your fingers on my body like a needle,

To ****** me with your carnality,

To drench your teeth in my blood like a digger in sand.



So, each night between the poles of nothing and everything

I unmake my bed

Stained with unfinished songs and pillows burnt

To let you in my heart shaped coffin

Because you are the fuel to this stick that runs between my fingers and writes for you.



So, come again tonight,

I’ll whisper you a death song.

You can laugh at death one more time,

And resurrect me with your rejection.

I don't want to live for ever,
Never,
To clever for that.

I don't want to work for the man,
never,
Signed up for that,

I don't want no steady life
Never,
Endeavoured for that.

I don't want to find treasure,
Never,
Got enough of that.

I don't want to look better,
Never,
Too weathered for that.

And I don't want to go sleep tonight,
Never
No, too leathered for that

X

Often we have disagreed, but now I refuse to hold my tongue
and shall raise pen to meet pen, watch the words clash in the air,
for how could you grant such a way of living superiority?
When the sensual and the intellect can meet as one
in capturing a young man's beauty in such a way
that he leaps from the page,
causing the reader to sail away away too.

But even if we saw eye to eye, as shortsighted as each other,
lack of intellect be ******.
I could not wish to travel there
to a place devoid of him, of all that encompasses him,
devoid of green eyes and jet hair,
a space within which his voice does not resonate
and participate in such an unequal trade
as to exchange immortality for a life without him.

Revered as you are, I do not agree.
I shall champion the dearth of intellect,
revere in all things sensual, as this is all I am fit for in your eyes,
but I shall be in love
and it is this I choose
over an infinite rhapsody of lifetimes.