Work Text:
Something about the end
makes it undeniably terrifying, fascinating.
The final period. The closed door.
The immense and crushing darkness of done.
It waits at the edge of every cliff,
The stop of every journey,
The closed curtains after the lights go out,
(do your lights go out)
and we spend our lives pretending otherwise,
sifting our days through careful little sieves of living,
hoping it, the end, might slip quietly, might ignore us,
Might be kind enough to grant us mercy and help us forget
(But is it kindness, to forget breathing?)
perhaps there is another way to speak of it.
That’s more life, more caring, more courage, more hope
Not as a cold, as lonely, as the imminent abyss you’d imagine it to be
It doesn’t have to be the potion of despair,
Nor hands fighting desperately through corpses,
nor gasped breaths swallowed by the deep black lake.
(alone)
Perhaps death is a supernova,
a colossal and cataclysmic collapse,
a star burning so violently it outshines the rest of the galaxy.
(and you were the star)
(you outshined everything)
And afterward, when the doom settles,
when the light should have vanished entirely,
You
still
remain.
Rotating beams.
Rhythmic pulses of light, of colour
echoing endlessly through the darkness of my nights.
Pulsar.
