first it's the cold, then it's just April
and her promise that spring has already sprung
that makes these waning days so blue.
at first it's the hollow silence
as it rings throughout the house, then as it
follows me out and hangs over my head
in the coming days of green and pink,
buffeting against my cotton-stuffed ears.
then the heaviest part of living becomes
waking each new morning and lying down
once again at night, or in the hours before dawn
should i have put up enough of a fight
as to have resisted against the necessities of living
just long enough to feel nearer to death--
my only comfort when breathing becomes labored,
beating then frantic, my blood entirely uncontrollable.
first it's the collapse of my lungs, but then i'm bleeding out
unstaunchable on my dark and gleaming sheets
and neither compares to rising unhindered,
or falling without resistance into subconscious musing.
at first i'm just dying, but then again it's only April
and she shakes her head at such an obscene thing.
