I've been picking up a lot of exoteric feedback lately regarding death, from the past, in the present, fears about it impending for some (not me) in the near future...

BUT I WILL GRIEVE WITH YOU

I may not be much for parties,
turning red
in the afterglow
of a spotlight
misaligned
with ordinary time
like the pit of a peach
lodged in a vulcher's neck
But I will grieve with you.
I'll find a way to fit
in your suicide gun
so we'll pick up the pieces
of each mingled other
to throw against a wall
until something sticks.
I can grieve with you
like nobody's mother.

Maybe I won't finance
your every grave circumstance
But you've got a hook-up
with the Patron Saint of Mournings
in spite of your laminate flouring
I will grieve with you
when the time is right
for absolute waste
and self-pity
when the world doesn't care
you're still witty
I will laugh for you
from the belly
while the rest of the crowd
kills you with sobering kindness
I will grieve with you
like only mothers do.


Writer's note: I just want to make it clear that I do not intend to advocate suicide with this poem. The 'suicide gun' is meant to be a metaphor for the destruction of the mental self, the ego, an event which often accompanies dramatic life changes, and which often takes great effort to rebuild and reframe within a person's transformed perspective of life.