The Cavern, or Tribunal on a Suicide (repost)

Death is becoming oneself.

Darkness mulled over with a decade of scuffed boots and rainwater,

shattered watch crystals littering the stone beneath.

No murmur scars it. No illumination.

Only the concussive silence of being,

traumatic understanding, most crushing realization:

“I am.”

The shortest speech, the minor soliloquy.

I am reminded of that tale which frayed as it fell across your lips;

that writer of fiction who ate himself sick on blank pages.

I am held still by the morality of a roasted lamb,

the one which swung writhing by its heels while outside the blizzard roared.

 I am shocked by your revelation that spring has come and passed since our time

beneath the planet Earth.

The last day above my eyes were held open by Hildegard the singer,

and the hymn which she chanted turned my ear inside out

that I may hear it,

in the same sort of way that you now hear this,

this passing communication which reminds you of your life.

Tonight that metaphor will break free of my language

and hover in the realm before space, where the undecided go,

that anesthesia of original sin.

In this way we are all becoming.