Thread
From the tips of my fingers to the
Tops of my cheek bones
I watch things die
I watch doors close
I stack my grievances as high
As a winner stacks his pride
Each goodbye a stone in a pyramid
I make room for death
I know death makes room
I sit back in the silence of what has yet to bloom
All is dust in the ground, seed and sorrow
Tears like dew on the grass beneath my feet
Black raven on white marble
Black crow flaps it’s wings
It’s the sound of a straw broom on wood floor
Sweeping the room I’ve offered to death
So dies expectation like dies a bee after it stings
The stinger still stuck in my foot
And in comes the tide, the forgiving ocean to wash us both away
So dies need like dies a wave after swelling with pain and crashing into the shore
So crumbles desire like that water breaks after tumbling in its final attempt to be heard
It is heard
All is heard
In dying you are heard
You are a wave, beautiful in every attempt to make something, to ask for something from someone, from yourself, the world
It is all beautiful
No matter the outcome
All of your pain and your flailing and fire
Your hopping around in purgatory
It is not lost, nor without story
It is beautiful in and of itself
There is none left to do
And within that you have every option