To Stare Into the Sun

You see it in the media like
flowers on a brick wall, or read
the famous last words; that’s
what makes it beautiful, that’s
what makes it alluring.

But suicides are the furthest
thing from that and have a ripple
effect, like a Kennedy dropped
into a cavern and the distant
echo eventually lost.

It’s the greatest cost, smaller
than a penny but nowhere
near a billion, and all the money
in this world is not even a tree
worth the value.

Suicide is like staring into the
sun, it’s always there but some
dare to glare into the unforgiving
light and the blindness that
follows is the night.

But it’s a night without a moon
or stars, an endless floating
like a leaf on a dark pond
without water, no rule, no law,
no gravity or physics.

There is no day to wake up
with and wish for tomorrow,
no sorrow, but also no chance
to catch the bus and see the
world blur by.

No precious molecules to feel
on a Lily, no meaning to smile,
a swing left still and no smell to
bring back the nostalgia of not
ever wanting to die.

For there is no reason why,
not the boy who devoured the
heart, the ones who can’t hear
over the hullabaloo, nor the
avalanche of everything

Or even if there is nothing
at all, because the ones who
didn’t stare into the Sun are
left with a question not even
you can answer.

Because once the body has
been found there is no need for
an explanation, except for the
method: the rope, the gun,
the useless information.

A zipper to confirm the death,
a bag full of potential like tools
to be auctioned off and a time
recorded where seconds once
blinked and breathed.

The candles on the birthday
cake can never be blown out,
because the clock was dropped
to the floor and all that once
was is nevermore.

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