Acceptance, Not Defeat

The dark madness of permanent resignation

in one act,

often the closing,

was once such a satisfying, calming,

and necessary thought in prepping me

for another day of work

while in the shower,

a lover’s rejection

as I lit up my smoke,

a trip to disappointment
over and off of 

a tall bridge.

Despite all my gesturing and introversion,

the truth is I wasn’t meant to be alone
for long.

And then came you and you and you.

And death itself became

no longer a gloriously ancient building,

its dilapidation now swallowed in chemical flames,

no longer a terrorist-martyr’s proud, well-planned defeat

where skyscrapers turn to fire,

but rather something to accept.

One short blue home.

I move outside

with some resistance

when it’s cloudy.

Rain is common here.

And death itself

becomes a thing to accept

with some resistance,

one which requires, as expected,
constant upkeep

and management

like a tiny flower garden.