[Death is an art.
The art of inner suicide.]
___________________
Her blade of death kisses the floor,
As that wrist or rails seal her existence.
Besmirched sheets have blanketed her frame with gore.
Could this be the end of her despairing menace?
Painful pleasure then slowly crawls,
In every bit of her sin.
Flame of end down her skin that's coal,
Sanity writhing in agony such keen.
___________________
In the artic winds of one December dusk,
I turned 16 . . .
Nestled in the comfort of your lovely arms,
I died within a redemptive grace.
Life was not worth living
until that Saturday night I died.
YOU ARE READING
Art of Inner Suicide
LosoweIn one's contemplation regarding suicide, the direct feeling merely marks the horizon of a lean in neither life nor death. In lieu, only the detachment from life makes them want to succumb to the latter- which by then, should sound perplexing enough...
