A quiet death

in

By Efe Esemuze

Can I be so bold to say that I don’t believe it?

That I don’t believe this will be any different?

How can the ever overflowing magnitude of my singing, swelling, aching heart ever be

matched

In vivacious tempo

In sprawling hills of sweeping crescendo and decrescendo

In swirling, twinkling lights of every variant of the cones in my eyes

In twisting ribbons that glide through me and spin me and tug my soul

through a magical sliver of existence I ardently permeate

in every waking moment of my aliveness?

How can the magnificent spiraling of tender profession,

The staircase of an airy, sun-filled cottage that lives in the very epicenter of my spirit

Now lay a heap in the depths of the lake of mind

Soggy and torn?

Ink has bled and I cannot recount nor utter the poesy

I had so desperately wanted to spout

When I held the reins tightly

And the flowers first bloomed and smelled sweet.

Even now I flash licorice teeth

As if etching these words onto the page is admitting defeat

But for now I will lay my pride down onto the land, a gentle hand in its hair,

In such a way that you would never do for me,

So that I can enjoy the reprieve of letting go of the fanciful, jaunty fellow,

he who is sick in the head,

Who has implanted the sickness in my head

which I have begun to slowly siphon out so I do not dream too deeply,

so that I am either awake or asleep,

and reality is a fresh, cold mask on the skin

that cannot become distorted and beautiful

in painful, blissful ecstasy.

But oh my whimsy, how I miss you!

I miss the way you wrapped yourself around my neck like a colorful shawl, poorly

knitted cherry fading into chartreuse into caramel.

How you tickled my chin and sent wonderful, warm sensations through my body!

I could spend hours sitting in that rocking chair,

Sweat politely gathering on my face as I stared out a tall, oak window

At a perfect blue sky,

With my glazed eyes unseeing and the air passing through my parted, chapped lips

like a quiet song,

And never grow tired of the pretty pictures you conjure.

I don’t know how I am killing it,

Be it with my hands around its throat, watching the eyes dull and yellow and thicken

until they explode into flecks of goldfish flesh,

But it feels like a slow, calm death,

Like a trapdoor sealing shut,

Like the dust settling in a cold, moon-watched desert.

Even death, beholden by the vigilant scattering of stars, can be beautiful.