A lonely creature content just to be,
Allured by the rooms that hide in the strange,
As one would see fit to rest with the sea—
Where time after time, you pine for exchange.
These fields that you lie in—seethe with regret,
These doors only lock from the other side,
If only the light had shone to forget—
The moon may have spurned to play with the tide.
But nevertheless, the chamber will call,
The aether of now is wretched and frail,
Both Heaven and Hell standby to befall—
For this shall renew your heart—either trail.
So, scatter blackbirds! And behold the door!
As nothingness splatters across the floor.
Suicide, sonnet, curse