Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou **** me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

I’m lost,
trying to swim
in a dry sea,
trying to force
myself to
draw breath
in an atmosphere
w i t h o u t    o x y g e n.
I reach,
but I can’t find
anything.
I’m an empty w
                         e
                          l
                          l,
and I don’t know
how to refill
myself.
However hard
I try,
however desperately
I grasp,
there’s nothing
to hold on to.

The memories badger me
zipping in and out of
clarity
like
moths.
They echo
with your laughter,
or whimper
in your teary murmur.
For a moment,
I can see
and hear
all
the kind,
eloquent,
empty
compliments and promises
we uttered to each other
at 12 AM
in the dim light of your room.

And I want it back.

My heart
moans
and keens
in grief,
my chest
burns
like acid,
and my stomach
twists
like a towel
being wrung out,
with the
potent ache
of your absence.
Her absence;
because that
giggling,
loyal,
loving girl
is gone now.

She drowned in
a storm
of her own misery.
She was shot
by her own
baseless conclusions,
and her own
hopeless assumptions.
Life handed her lemons,
and her
naïveté
and
cynicism
shoved them
down
her
throat,
forcing her to
s
    w
         a
              l
                  l
                      o
                          w
before God made them
into lemonade.
And now,
I'm faced with
a colder,
more jaded version
of the girl I knew-
and so loved.

But the memories…