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I Dedicate this to Death

When the darkest hour of the night dominates
the sky I used to see by day, I am left alone to
carry the thoughts of my own self-destruction
in my lonesome head. The corrosion of my
life, which shall be anything but bittersweet,
is launched towards me across the highway of
time, at speeds beyond incalculable, towards a
life I have barely begun to appreciate. Is it too
much to ask for a final kiss to grace these lips
of mine, before the final hour of my bleakest
end is thrown upon my death bed? Would the
lips of the angelic damsel I long so dearly for
even wish to lower her face towards mine, as
I lie unmoving beneath the duvet that will
shelter my damnation, or shall her judgement
be reserved and her lips pulled out of reach,
before the touch of flesh is even aligned?

Upon the bed of death, is not a man entitled
for one final wish before crossing over into
the light that illuminates the world beyond?
Should I not be allowed one final act of
gracefulness before the beauty of the world
is all but barred from me in the hour of my
unpredicted demise? Should this be the end
of daybreak; not the world’s, but mine, what
words will escape the lips of those who knew
me well? Will a wave of tragedy sweep people
from their feet, or shall a smile of satisfaction
be what caresses the moment I was timed out?
Will tears fall from the eyes of many, burdened
by much grief, or shall a slight shake of the
head be the only recognition sent my way?

What will be placed in my eulogy, and would I
like to hear its words, or shall there be none to
speak of, and no obituary or funeral too? Shall
I be so easily forgotten, and become less than an
inaudible whisper in the gathering darkness of
shadows and time, or will I live eternally, and be
granted immortality in hearts and prayers of
those who prevail with life? If these written
words contain a droplet of truth within their
printed ink, then such shall be the last creation
ever conceived by these hands of mine. What
legacy would I need to leave behind within this
work to prove with truthful honesty that I truly
did exist, and am not the result of fictitious
vanity? And if by chance I manage to convince
the hearts of many about the life I did once hold,
let it be known that the last of the romantics
died with me.

Pretentious perhaps is such an ideology, but in a
world which lacks the values of love everlasting,
perhaps I was simply grateful to have my existence
brought to an immediate close? Regardless of the
final thoughts which crawled across my mind, I
was able to feel for but a second what few people
ever find, and maybe, although I never became a
published author and married no celebrity;
although my friends numbered in the few and
those who loved me were almost non-existent;
although I was never rich and had no mansion to
speak of; although healthiness and exercise were
not continuous components of my repertoire,
after 24 years I knew what love truly was; how
many people can claim the same?

Tomorrow I’m going into hospital for another major operation. I wrote this particular piece with regards to how I have no idea what fate has in store for me.
Thank you for reading.