Breathe was excruciatingly painful,

And Death was beautiful.

It wasn't like the peaceful sleep,

everyone tales on.

It was like the melancholy song

in the midnight whispering

in my ears slowly,

covered in the autumn air.

There wasn't any darkness to fall into,

neither did any tunnel to look for.

Only the shade enveloping

in a cloak against the coldness.

Clearing visions as every breathe

felt like the scent of,

rain caressing the dry soil.

Deep dark melody

from the violin strings

played by the lone walker

in the ocean of cold stones

and fallen leaves..,

contenting but painfully incomplete.

Anchored down to the scars that left on

by the crack of voice,

paintings of footprints,

dense with tears and untold words

filled with regrets and gratitude.

Every breath was grievous,

And Death was beautiful.

 "Again, this is death. Is it the air,

The particles of destruction I suck up? Am I a pulse that wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel? Is this my lover then? This death, this death?"― Sylvia Plath, Winter Trees.

Copyright © 2021

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

Cover by dworzakmona

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This is my second poetry book. Click the external link added to find my first book.