The Melancholic Beauty in Dying

I don't want to wither away,

hurting miserably with every falling leaf

dried and curled under the excruciating burden of anger, resentment and fright;

covered with rotten and yellowing streaks of joy and life.

I don't want to fall apart sliver by sliver

as my shell shrivels up and cracks

bleeding ever so slowly into non-existence,

Livor mortis casting a haunting blue stain on my body

with my humors pooling into stillness as they give in to gravity.

I wish to be crushed mercilessly

while there's still anthocyanin on my blooming petals

beaming and swaying along the breeze,

in the midst of suffusing the world with all the joy I can.

I want to go out at the peak of my glory.

I wish to be snapped out in a singular blow,

missing the opportunity to scream or wail.

I imagine a smile glazing my dry lips

as every bit of air inside my body

gushes out in a sharp, singular gust of cool breeze,

carrying the remnants of musky melancholies with them.

I don't want pain and suffering...…

I wish to embrace a beautiful death

as I leap into the afterlife from my hell,

in the duration of a mere second.

 

Author's Note

Feel free to help me express myself better! Open to all sorts of advice and constructive criticism as long as it's done in the bounds of respect.