The Death of Me
The death of me.
I used to believe in undying energy.
That I sprung into becoming after always being me. That my life was just an effigy of a early time.
Maybe I was a purveyor of wine or a whino begging another version of me for a dime. Maybe I spent a life trying to perfect a craft while wiser men dedicated their lives to laughs. Maybe I died bravely protecting my love. Maybe I was cruel and took pleasure in the translucent blood of salted slugs.
I don’t really know. Sometimes I think I can feel the flow or the Universal or a caged and enraged soul crying out for something bigger, better or more. Like bright lights shinning on the blackened floor through a drafty door. I am demure.
The frightful excitement. The blinding enlightenment. The knowledge of this ignorance is bliss. Listless dust floating in the mist. A powerless king cowering to his knees. I am not the captain of fate. I’m just lying awake until the death of me.
-A.D. Wright, February 9, 2017