Suicide Lane Cafe

5/6/13

We should, I think, stop writing about death. 

Because one day, someone somewhere is going to die, and nobody will care enough to write a poem - or a story - or a song - 

And that will make it all the more sadder. 

Thinking of death, a blot on a page, a washed out dark ink stain

Thinking that the heart beating erratically next to yours could one day sputter into silence into a broken train track, it's unsettling, and sad

And sad that something so big could mean so little.

We are stones afraid to sink to the seabed

Monsters hiding under our own beds

Indians cradling our fates with open arms

Demons that cannot be drowned

And so we drift

and drift

and d   r       i          f                 t

- because if we cannot tear out a single page of our life, perhaps we can burn the whole fucking book -

and here in this valley of broken dreams

the stars are bright but not blinding

and night only comes once

and the sleep is heavy and everlasting

but oh so cathartic.

(and I know what they don't)

(I know that when you cry for God)

(Death is the only salvation that comes)