This is not my eulogy

I have long feared the night,

the unending sleep which awaits,

I shudder at its pale phantom in the mornings,

having already awoken anxious,

so I boil off my skin in little waxy strips in the shower,

always incapable of animating these old bones,

instead settling on blowing steamy hearts onto the cold windows of the train,

hoping for some unfound lover to find my lonely SOS.

 

I forget from time to time about the ignition of my immortal soul,

not by the promise of unending cognition,

but by the unsung rebellions of ordinary people,

who worship not at the altar of the hoping,

but propagate the cult of the hopeful,

and inspire me to act out my own rebellions,

even if I know that they will fail.

 

I throw my blade on the Coliseum sand,

bury every hatchet—including the one you shoved in my back—

in fresh fallen snow,

and hold out for loves that won’t be easy…

 

I permit my feelings to take wing,

and billow in the dead winter,

like a forgotten leaf,

still bearing its green veins,

to tell us all in godly cursive,

that spring shall come again.

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