Will

My goal is to die once more before I’m gone.
To die a way I never died before.
To have a death that spreads and yawns and crawls
In every corner of my body,
Head to toes.
The memory of my death still lingers on,
In some basement of my self,
Enshrined in some pane,
Yellowed and cold.
I do not treasure my death the way I should –
Ungrateful worm that sweeps through the caverns of
One word.
I live to die and yet
I’m as dead
As any other being who can feel.
I trace on paper my obsessive desire
To wail, to weep, to moan and yell,
unafraid
That death might find my ways unfit
and sink me in a water too deep.
I fear, therefore I am,
And every time my fear is faced
with someone else’s craft of actors
I fall off my stage and crave
For a death I could call my own.