so it goes.

maybe death will be
a way for the cosmos to
correct themselves.
if the
Tralmafadorian
concept of time 
is correct, things
are constantly
ending, existing, and
beginning
simultaneously. 
maybe dying will
release me to
wherever i
belong-

salvation.

it’s a familiar feeling that
is eerily dissimilar to 
anything you’ve felt before.
the sickly sweet smell of 
blooming trees takes
you there,
delivered by the cold
spring wind.

too late.

no one threw themselves 
upon his funeral pyre-
offering only a few muffled
words to the
crackles and the heat.
did these suffice?
we wonder now-
always regrets,
always later.

temporarily untitled.

i’ve found that it’s possible
to think of everything and
nothing
all at once.
it’s exhausting and
refreshing-
the only reason i can
bear to be
alone.

manners

maybe only the children
can see
the dead girl in the 
water.
parents chide them for
pointing
as they stroll by and
her lungs coat with
mud.