There are those who hope that
The other side of suicide
Is a white room with perfect acoustics
Perfectly calibrated to amplify
The whispered reminiscences
Of familiar voices who have
Borne witness to the otherwise fullness
Of a prematurely curtailed life.
The sonorous resonance of sadness
Reverberates off these walls
And the lone curtained window quavers
Always on the edge of a radial shatter.
This dream is the last
Solace of all defeated souls,
Where there is a first realization,
Finally, once gone, of what
It means to be deeply missed.
But this was never a real place
Nor even a conceptual solace
Where fearful stowaways could
Surreptitiously hide, gravitating
Toward the negative spaces
Behind curtains or lurking
Around corners just off stage.
Everyone sounds as sad
As you used to feel.
And maybe that can be enough,
A small salvation, a final
Feeble attempt at self forgiveness
Which is the best heaven,
Given the circumstances, that
One can hope to get.
The other side of this choice
Is a blank page on which
Everyone else gets to write
The story of your dumb, abbreviated days.
But you don’t get a pencil
And you’re not allowed to erase
Anything you don't like, because
Every heaven must have its own hell.
But the reality is here,
In a quiet room, the window
Cracked to allow a breeze
Which carries the song
Of a fat speckled wood thrush
And that’s you at the desk, hunched
Over piles of blank, loose leaf sheets
And your corded veins are surging with life
And there’s so many words straining to be released
And you write and you write
In such a mad rush the desk shakes
And your hand starts to cramp
Until all the pages are filled
With an invisible ink
That only you can read