felo de se

Death isn’t a choice; death is the only obvious

I.

We have probably been telling us the same old lies over and over again

But, is one lie told a thousand times over, half as real as the truth

But, is one lie told a thousand times over, half as appalling as the truth

And yet here we are, living mirages over and over, hoping this time around it’d be life at the end of the desert

If only, the illusion of life was half as rousing as the idea of life

But then, we hope

For, the promise of a dawn inspires

For, the actuality of a dusk weeps cold sweat

But then, what happens when the dawn just doesn’t seem apparent enough?

Broken promises are like broken pastels; survival turns synonym for life in the bargain for renaissance

If only, pastels could scream in broken spaces

II.

What happens when the illusion wears off?

Do you wake up like you’d, off a usual night’s slumber

Does death instead make sense after all, to the disillusioned existence

If only afterlives could be penned in novels and essays

But then, would you write poetry if you could become?

III.

This wouldn’t be the first time that I have desired death

It was a long time ago; long enough for desires though not long enough to be forgotten

Long before I had killed Gandhi

Long before I had sung ballads at my funeral

I had desired poetry long before I turned poet

IV.

The lies have dropped dead somewhat like the withered yellow leaves of the last twig alive

The disguises have given in to the betrayals etched in the faces beneath the skin

I have walked in and out of love at the length of broken marriages and wrecked affairs

I have sold borrowed intimacies and voyeured adulteries like they were groceries

I have let acquaintances burn in the name of a thousand gods because it felt good to watch

I have erased the entirety of existences like they were scribbles off a pencil

And yet, I haven’t found life

I am not looking for life, not anymore

V.

Death isn’t a choice; death is the only obvious