i would like to die by the lighthouse.
pere marquette in the dead of night
the walk there peaceful,
as they are my last steps
after all.
and i won't have to speak,
or sing, or dance,
or flush my face out of fear or ridicule,
of embarrassment,
but i'll flush my face
with the waters of the waves
sweeping up into the rocks
and down goes my breath,
my last few breaths.
i've a few (many) pills
concealed in my pink jacket pocket.
i've a few (many but not so many)
catfish
swimming by to say hello,
to say farewell.
and with my last blink of my eye,
the moon is in line
with the lighthouse
and my star will forever sparkle,
i hope.
and the beacon passes o'er my body,
the light of an absent watchman,
it's just us, me lifeless and the beacon radiant.
no one to bother,
poke,
**** at me,
at my mind.
searching outside of their own minds
for answers to their own hearts' questions
to which i respond
a blank stare, for the lake is in my eyes.
water filling up, ready to be unleashed
later tonight rejoining with the waters
of the big blue lake and
my emptiness will be in harmony
with the moon's lonliness
and the black sky's vastness
and the bleak, rusty red
of my favorite old lighthouse
all muddled together, a sickly brown...
no, gray. no, i don't know...
colors don't matter at night
when you can't make them out anyways.
same goes for when you're dead.
i hope the stars shine for me,
but when the night is cloudy,
i can trust my beacon,
my lighthouse,
my waves,
to give me peace, rest,
rhythm,
in my most chaotic times.
i suppose they drew me in.
