It’s more like ink than blood,
despite the implications of writing
your death on the page quite so
failingly, haltingly literally.
It’s more like life than not,
despite a general lack of vigour
and movement and love and passion
calling you to rise instead of
midday sunbeams burning your eyes.
to his whiteness,
into instant everything
(( I don’t usually do this, but this is a few lines from a poem that was very format intensive. WordPress doesn’t like formatting, indenting, or spacing very much. If you’d like to see the poem proper, please check out my tumblr or deviantart;
He curled up on the grass
and pretended to die
with such startling efficiency
that all the senses fled
and his heart slowed to
nothing, each thudding beat
filling him like nothing else.
bare feet felt grass, felt edges
tipped forward stroke backward
admiring endless nothing, oblivion
before deciding it was not for him
and coughing back into existence,
sitting up and clearing his eyes.