A Mural of Black, White and Gray

Derived from pestilence,
And a droning noise in my ear,
I am to continue to wither away,
Year by fragile year.

The great outdoors and refracted waters,
The gunning of saints and insignificant martyrs,
These are the things to consider as I write,
Before I am crafted, reborn, and taken flight.

There are things that mean little to me, true, true.
Petty things such as relationships and meager responsibility.
Wretched, minute things such as unobtainable talent and ability.
Such small things. I should light a match and watch them burn.

I know I can be nihilistic. But the end is so near I can hear it.
It sings with such a sweet, soft voice.
I think it wants me to accept and rejoice.
What should I do?

Come with me, by the pond’s quiet repose.
Look in with me, gaze at the waving Egyptian dancers.
Look in so deep, the cool water shines and glows,
Begging for you to dissect and piece answers.

And when you reach the conclusion of unavoidable rapture,
Look at me, smile and merge into my eyes, unblinking and eminent.
Will you join me to the edge, to black of nothing?
I think that, in the end, the realization will be infinite.

ad majorem Dei gloriam