Contemplations of a Disturbed Soul

III

For I'm not afraid of death, dearest-

But of dying.

Of losing you among the stars,

Which had caught me spying.

And I don't pity my soul, oh,

For it is faint and wasted

But yours, which I have loved,

And breathed in and tasted.

Oh, I don't live to spread and seek

But to know love.

And every soul that loved me back,

Is lost to the stars above-

Which blaze above-

Us all.

For I don't want your blood, dearest-

But your ink.

And taint your heart and pick you up

From fires in which you sink.

And I don't cherish the dead, oh,

But them that they call living.

Some of them do rave for love,

But none of them do sing.

Oh, I see the container of these lives,

But I don't see your face.

Aren't you here with me-

To cure this dying race?

This fading race-

Of the living.

For I know I'm not alone, dearest-

But a stranger in this crowd.

A crowd that doesn't stop and admire-

The beauty of its sound.

And I think of dying, bound in chains-

You never came and broke.

I think of those sweetest words-

You never really spoke.

Oh, I'm ignorant. But I don't want knowledge.

If knowledge means losing you.

But you are lost among those words-

And sketches that I drew.

That I etched upon every heart-

That I found longing with thirst.

So when I pass to quietus,

I know this heart won't burst.

For death is but another adventure of life-

Another way to breathe you out-

And breathe you in-

And love you back-

And drown to hear you shout-

To hear you scream out-

To this infinity.