and how do I find my rest in those caves so dark, so cold, so damp
the restless flame quells —
that blanket,
that heart that’s lived a thousand lives,
the part of me that’s died a thousand deaths.
when I’m there,
so easy is it to let it all go.
to let it all go.
the cynic and the realist becoming one,
reserving optimism
for that which has stood the test.
No.
When I’m here,
I recognize I do not truly have anyone
and that makes me enjoy people’s company more, for I know what to expect
the frivol I act with
that manic, restless, bright-eyed creature
if only they knew that
That life,
it is superimposed
with this death
inside of me.
why is this endless night that exists in my soul
so comfortable?
it is so stripped of illusion. it is like sitting permanently at the ending of a story, in denouement everlasting.
it is stripped of fear, for once you’ve already died, what else is there truly to fear? what is there to haunt you when it is you that’s the ghost?
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 