Dying Is An Art

Die, die, die.
Perish. Annihilate. Obliterate.
A well of nothingness.
The cry of everlasting pain.
One teardrop at a time.
Let the sycamores of time heal me.

Cry, cry, cry.
Forget. Heal. Forgive.
Like the laughter of a child.
The crowing of blue jays.
Listening to the song of tomorrow.
Letting go and moving on.

It wasn't supposed to be about
you and me. It was like a
dream I've just woken up from.
It was the cry of doom that
finally alerted me to everything around,
everything falling to pieces.

I stood on the cliff and howled to
the wind. It threw the echo
right back at my face. Defacing me,
smearing the streaks of pain right
down my scars and bloody wounds.
The cry that left me was inhuman.

Sylvia was my role model,
my No. 1 teacher on death.
She perfected dying to an art
by sticking her head in a gas oven
and that I wish to emulate.
To an extent, I do seek death.

I chase after death, like others
chase life. Down the pounding highway,
my heart is as full of life as death has
given me. Without death, how do I live on;
without the pain of losing me,
how do I miss myself?

Death in sorrow.
Death in tears.
Death like an everlasting well of joy,
an eternal spring of life.
It is unlike anything we have ever seen,
or felt before, so why fore we debase it?