Today, just for a sunset,

I choose to sleep.


I hear the sound of emptiness,

Winds blowing round a funnel,

I smell the scent of comfort,

That droops my eyes, I wonder,

Have I suffered at all?


I’ve seen blood mix with water,

Whirls of vermilion.

Felt goosebumps on my skin,

Screams that sprout out.


This a’int poetry.

If I were a bard,

I would pluck petals from words,

Paint fables of childhood,

Not lonesome deaths.

Perhaps this a’int death,

But grief’s funeral.


Perhaps I am the source,

Perhaps I sink within.


Does life exist only till I breathe?

Perhaps I should die and see.

Stealthily creep back into the game,

Pretend I never lost.

Perhaps I never lost.


Don’t tell this tale by the fireplace.

It will not roast the corns.

Whisper it to a new born,

He won’t shun hope nonetheless.


Someone needs to hear it,

Yet not squirm in disbelief,

Yet not say he suffered more, nor equal,

Yet not less and mock a cruel God.

Yet smile and fill the barren,

With nectar they can’t produce.


Yes, whisper it to a new born,

They only love, not lose.