The Stuff of Pleasant Fiction

The sandman seeks me even now,

but his trials are all for not.

Sleep will not find this servant of the flow.

This blade is sharp,

it shines like so many raindrops

reflecting the light of a sinking sun.

Cut free this tatered heart from its rustic perch.

Remove it from its prison of flesh and bone,

and cast what remains down this river of lost hope.

A shooting star, blown free from heaven.

Make a wish, close your eyes,

and pray they need not open again.

The blood within these aging veins,

once red and flowing,

now so dark, viscus, black.

Rotting from the inside out.

This soul too fractured to fit this limited form.

Five bullets, Six chambers.

Spin the wheel one more time.

Time to go all out,

and let the chips fall where they may.

And as the still night takes me,

and I float serenely down the river styx,

let the coins stay upon these upturned eyes,

and pay my way into oblivion.

I have forgotten not the way of the samurai.

An honorable end, a beautiful death,

let my exit be that of poetry,

let it be marked by tears of bliss,

and let it be tinged with such a simple sweetness,

that the world smiles in spite of itself.

Happy endings,

ah let this be the stuff of pleasant fiction,

and let this blood cool quickly.

The manip at the top is a recent unfinished remake of one i made back in school, probably about 4 years ago.

~ by Flow on July 3, 2009.