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Death's Soliloquy
By Adreyo Sen
QuailBellMagazine.com 
Once I longed for Death,
to make me a nothing, so I could feel no more, least her acid tongue, her stinging slaps, least his hand confidential upon my thigh.
Now I am Death herself,
my knife my earnest artistry. Your animal shrieks give me no joy. My hands will never be clean again, they gleam crimson truths through much-applied Ivory. When you are Death, how can you die? You are condemned to fretful living. The consumption of life after life brings no color to your skin. I'm opaque as the night, even as my knife a brilliant color brings to your pallid cheeks. Do not struggle. I want to get this over with. In my youth, if such a term could be applied to weak misery, I waited for the sun to release me from my unkempt prison into the playground of other children. (I never learned to smile myself.) Now I seek to stare out the sun so it can thrust me into solitary darkness. So I may lie wooden, on soft sheets, a stage for all my ghosts, and as they flit across my eyes, give up being.
#Unreal #Poem #DeathsSoliloquy #Solitary #Loneliness #DeathCannotDie #MementoMori
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