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A Curious Species
I took my life in March, such a dreary month!
The rain was falling outside, I wished that it would stop.
So many men have killed themselves in the rain.
On that day in March, I wore large shoes.
They were far too big, and the color of daffodils,
So that people might see them and say, “Why, what shoes are these! What a unique man!”
Of course, I was not a unique man.
I wore a shirt, or perhaps it wore me, I do not quite recall.
But I do know it was dark green, like my mothers eyes, or a clump of moss
Separating the lonely bricks in a wall.
No matter how big or yellow my shoes were,
My mother would not think I was a unique man.
I killed myself in my study, as the caramel sun set just beyond infinity,
in a chair next to the bookshelf.
Oh, I’m sure Hemingway was proud as he looked on.
This moment was one we shared, as thinking men;
so of course, there was no Bible on this bookshelf.
I was sure I was dissolving into nothing, that is to say, everything.
The drug of the people was never to my liking!
But I did not condemn the saints,
And I simply revered the sinners.
There was music, that was important.
Perhaps the neighbors thought I was being pretentious.
Didn’t they know I was the happy genius of my household?
No time for doubt, I am happy with it all!
I was an artist, an artist dead in his study; how poetic!
Bathed in chaotic melody next to the books and the rain.
Before I steeled myself and squeezed, I attempted a cure, oh yes!
I first sought the disease, as any good physician must.
Is the world too progressive or too static?
In need more of passion or reason?
Is there not some great compromise to be reached before we take our final bow?
Can there be a right answer? Or at least, an answer that was not so horribly, painfully, frustratingly, obviously and completely wrong?
Ah, but the Sirens were singing my name, you understand!
My very being was drifting off to golden islands where these decisions do not matter.
I remember thinking to myself, “I hope there are no clouds, please no clouds.”
No, I wanted them to be wrong. I even wanted myself to be wrong.
I wanted to pull that cold trigger, and see a big, hairy naked man with a sign round his neck that read “They wont be expecting this!” or perhaps, “The bathrooms are on the left”.