Almost everything makes me cry: A poetry book

Death

I find myself obsessed with death.

“Obsessed” is a strong word—

it could be wrong.

If I could find the right word, I would say it.

I trap it in a jar and save it,

and I make sure you know it’s not far from obsession,

but far from aggression.

In my eyes, it feels like progression—

from something rotten,

something bad.

But death is not bad.

It is only the way of life,

or where it ends.

Death is not something to be afraid of.

You can be afraid of it,

but it speaks to me like an ending.

It is not a curse,

but a blessing.

And I am not trying to romanticize it—

I am only saying death should not be feared.

Because if it is just a black, dark slumber

with nothing around you, that is not scary—

that is sleep.

And if it is pearly white gates

beyond the clouds and the universe itself,

then that shall be called above.

If it is light—the light that shines,

the light that leads somewhere—where does it go?

I think it leads to peace.

And when I find my light,

when everything goes dark,

will I see it?

I shall not be scared.

I have lived my life before,

but I shall not mourn being drawn into the new light—

I shall call it the ending.