Too Often

- jan-u-wine

Too often,
I fear that
I shall die.
 
Sometimes,
 
I fear
that I
shall not.
 
One truth remains:
there
is
no rest
for me,
apart
from the touch
of It
upon my throat,
the terrible
weight
of It
pulling me
forward.
 
The pain
becomes
almost 
pleasure....
 
one that I would
miss,
were it not constant,
like the hard
eye
of too-close fire
without
a wrathful
envelope of flame

 
I can not
ever
explain
this to you,
nor
even
to myself.
 
When did my loathing
become need,
my disgust,
sharp-willed
desire,
 
my hatred.....
 
I will not
yet
admit
(even to myself)
what my hatred
has become.
 
 
If only,
 
if
 
only,
 
I might lie down
now,
quiet
as a shadow
beneath the unseeing
moon,
 
lie down
 
and never rise again.
 
I have not will enough
left
even for that.
 
For whatever time
I have left,
 
whatever moments
(with the harshness
about my neck
sliding
with my own blood),
 
I wish to hold It
and
listen to the sound
of It
filling the hours
with heavy night,
peopling the blankness
of my mind
with all It has seen
and done
in the secret Dark
of the World.
 
In one of the few
small
moments
when I do not hear
Its voice,
I wonder,
(all wound about
with need by Its silence)
what I am to It.
 
Just another flicker
in the vast
dim light of time,
only
a means to an end.....
 
An end.....
 
bitter laughter
echoes back
within my mind.
 
We both
seek
an end.
 
I wonder,
as It twists
about my neck,
 
as It
turns
upon the paths of my mind,
 
if that which we seek,
as the day
thins
to too-close night,
and fear
and desire
tear me....
 
I wonder
 
if we do not seek
the same 
end.