literature

Death is Lovely

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SadisticYellowBird's avatar
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Literature Text

On a cold winters night
The sun does set
Not a cloud in the sky
The moon rotates, due west
And he notes with a sigh
That there, on the tracks, did he intend to take his life
But do not mistake
This sigh is not of discontent
It is, in fact, relief
As soon all will end

It is not that he was tortured
Nor was he in pain
So long has he been in a mood neutral
He can no longer recollect the experience of "feeling"
But this bothers him not
From his point of view this is better than well
It aids him in his quest
Brought on by insanity's quell

One might ask
Upon receiving this news
Why he wishes for all to end
Even seeks it out, as one would a...fallen friend
There is little explanation
Which I may offer to you
Yet there is one thing, of which I'll relate
But for later that is; for now back to him

Sitting there
He tries to recall
How he let life pass him by
Or how hope and pleasure had disappeared
Slowly washed away with the tide
Yesterday it seems
He was a small child, with wide eyes
Hoping to explore the four corners of the globe
Anxiously awaiting a time when he would be grown
To live, to discover, to see
All of it would appear to have ended so suddenly
Subtle in exit as well
But this does not drive him
To the task which is at hand
"Do I even know why?" He questions; ponders for hours in fact,
But all no no avail
How can this be?
When for so long has he known how
And only slightly shorter when

It must be some condition
Of external origin
Which drives him to the brink of insanity
Overwhelmed with emotion
But that it is not
What then?
I cannot say; and the reason is quite clear
Even he is unaware
Though he is happy to oblige
And as far as he is concerned
There is little to no reason
For him to question why

Contemplation now over
His sub-conscious mind in cold sweat
Hear the whistle blow
And the sound of heavy machinery
Bellows from the fast-approaching train
Now he is little more than a pet
To the man-made machine
And the other being, that which is inside of him, but is not he
So he lies down, quietly
Place his neck on the rail
His thoughts were as follows
And dying men never lie

"If sheer nonexistence is beauty,
Then death is more so,
And the act of it, even,
Is a humble, reckless work of art,
How can one describe this,
With the aid of mere words?
For death it is lovely,
As well as a curse."

These thoughts were his last.
And a surprise this may seem, but quite eventually, he is you and he is me, and we think the same, these thoughts will be our last, regardless of the varied conditions in which we pass.
© 2011 - 2024 SadisticYellowBird
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PessimismFTW's avatar
Heather sent me. I enjoy your work immensely. It's definitely the sort of thing I'm into, I'll be posting some of my things later too ;) Keep up the good work!