Let us run, far from here, into the acid
oblivion of what follows, the
nothing that ever came, when
the smoke rises.
Did you ever wonder what it would be like to die on your own, dreaming?
Did you (like me) have those visions of cold brass in the dark, gleaming?
Did you smell the ash filling the air around us as the heat rose, seeming
to all of us a natural step-to-step-step, until we could no longer live?
unto the dust and the sweat and the exhaustion
until we were broken down, glue-spun
(they shoot horses like us, don’t they)
What will it feel like?
Will death come all at once, or
will death come slowly, twig-like cracking?
I am so dreadfully afraid.
I still think this is one of the best things I’ve written I’ve lightly edited it here, so I suppose this is the most definitive version yet. But I’ll probably tinker with it again.