If only death was as it ought to be: a deep darkness that sinks to the bottom of my soul like autumn leaves on a still lake. Or like a stone thrown into the deepest ocean might descends to hidden depths. Or like smoke disappears with the winds or sand that is taken out with the tide. Then, perhaps I could bear it.
Watch me clumsily falter amidst the darkness, and wonder why and grasp desperately to what is not there as I only disturb myself.
Alas, death is a lingering thought, a hollow realisation carved from from my most beautiful memories, which reminds me of the impossibility of now.
Why is it so? That I grieve for that which was never mine?
For another life is not mine to lose.
For another life is independent.
Yet, I still believe I have lost It at sea,
Yet, within this darkness I’m in, this quite room with spilt wine that I can no longer see.