06-27-2011, 10:20 AM
“Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns” – William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 3, scene 1
My head is propped on eiderdown,
my wasted hands folded like clasps
over a bosom now still.
I don't remember how I died.
I rarely think about it much.
Too lost in dreams is my rambling soul,
eternity's hushed cinema, where I am
the only patron. Not once in life
would I have believed the ecstasy of solitude,
as each moment, scraped knees, old wounds,
kisses, sex, illness and joy, flows through
my rotting flesh. Stringing fairy lights across
my ribs and silent jaw. I hope I never leave this shore.
That my energy, my soul, stays locked within
this varnished box, while those above, still suffering, mourn.
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns” – William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 3, scene 1
My head is propped on eiderdown,
my wasted hands folded like clasps
over a bosom now still.
I don't remember how I died.
I rarely think about it much.
Too lost in dreams is my rambling soul,
eternity's hushed cinema, where I am
the only patron. Not once in life
would I have believed the ecstasy of solitude,
as each moment, scraped knees, old wounds,
kisses, sex, illness and joy, flows through
my rotting flesh. Stringing fairy lights across
my ribs and silent jaw. I hope I never leave this shore.
That my energy, my soul, stays locked within
this varnished box, while those above, still suffering, mourn.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe