Red pills, white pills — which am I?
Your only chance to discard all hopes
and dream with the desolate dreams.
Death is my morphine, hypnotic, as I lay
in the arms of Morpheus. His only child.
I am Red.
Ms Doctor bleaches me to burgundy —
pink — to the ashen contradiction of my vomit.
Perhaps I am also Blue
when all I see is Black. Burial black
as dingy as a cemetery. There I make friends
with no one but dim glow-worms that drift
but scarcely fly. Their illuminance
renders false green in gold, much like spite.
I am twenty,
yet antique as my parents' teak treasury.
Dead Grandmother would love me —
she commands the crows.
When I die, aloneness contains,
softly inducing, lowering me
to the finesse of inferiority that is my hearth.
It is liberation after a long haul.
You cannot opine, shall not relate,
for Death is mine.
Friday, November 30, 2012, 10:01 – 10:34 PM
November prompt, day 22: paradise.