Sometimes I wonder
What happens to us when we die.
Whether our souls explode into a million fluttering and pure pieces like some sort of exciting and one-of-the-kind fireworks show,
As if our insides just got tired of being so cooped up
Inside this thin skin sack that we call a body
That one day we just
Combust
Like fire on kerosene
But ten times more destructive
And I suppose
Ten times more beautiful.
Or maybe we are like an old light bulb
Fading away more and more each day
Until suddenly we flicker out entirely.
Slow and calm and seductive
Like a mother’s lullaby lulling us to sleep
And maybe death is a kind of sleep
A sleep where we leave behind
All of those unnecessary
And ugly
Parts of us that just weigh us down,
Mouth,
Hair,
Arms,
Legs,
Nose,
Eyes,
Except for the hands.
Those I think can stay,
Because after all
They are the ones that held other hands,
And babies,
And pencils to write these poems,
And they waved,
And touched,
And held things together when they broke,
These hands they also made fists,
And whatever you have to say about those...
They kept me free.
And I guess being dead,
Is all about being free.
Free of all these horrible mundane human things.
Free of lies and worries and taxes and politicians that don’t give a s*** anyway.
Just
Free.