Would I love again? I wondered,
as years wandered by.
In times of frustration, I thought, ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
But in every attempt I blundered
and, left with her memory piercing my soul,
the guilt of giving myself played its role
in my sinking deeper and deeper into darker depression.
And I found myself in an emotional recession,
where nothing was worth waking for and no one cared for me;
where borrowed time was highly sought and all were scared for me.
I imagined conversations with those who had passed away.
I struggled to live my life by the words she did say.
But I, laughing scornfully, was not of a mind
to make rational choices, and so I was confined
to my self-pity, my self-loathing, losing self-respect.
I was a democracy ruling without any elect,
and my decisions did not have my welfare in mind.
My ruin was guaranteed as my health declined.
Taking control was a priority;
taking my life a reality.
By knife, noose, bullet or height;
how would I go? Would it be right?
And would it work?
Why had I not considered it before?
I could be with the one I adore.
But I didn’t believe that. So where would I go?
Yet if nowhere, I would never know.
So what did it matter? I would give it a try.
And many a close friend would suffer and cry.
But they were gone too; so who was I leaving?
What point would I make, with the plan I was conceiving?
This was not like youth, where attention was sought.
There was nobody left, at least that I thought.
Nevertheless, the attempts were many.
I cried as I bled and I wondered if any
would care that this man who seemed ever there,
looked broken and beaten, yet rose from his chair
again and again and so many times,
never feeling the wrath of his personal crimes.
It hurt, Damn! it hurt, but never enough.
All the time laughing, Death calling my bluff.
Collapsing to states of greater despair,
for the failure to pass over and make my way there.
It was a time of perpetual sadness;
an aeon of perpetual madness.