There, in the morning light

There, in the morning light

your face seeming brighter than usual

had me fooled

for a moment

I thought you weren’t dead

for a moment

I wondered, if it was just a nightmare

but the revolver

by the pillow

the empty bottle of wine

and the burgundy mixed with crimson

told a different story

one that didn’t end well

but with smoke at the end of a barrel

I wasn’t sure if I had killed you

or if it was a suicide

this morning

suddenly a feverish nightmare

yet, I couldn’t escape the thought

that this was probably

the most peaceful that you had ever looked

is death really so bad?

is it really the monster we have made it out to be?

maybe it’s just the poet in me that

saw the broadstrokes in spilled blood

and overheard the bacchanal

welcoming you to Valhalla.


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