The Death of Death

I grow sick of this perpetual perplexing pursuit

Why bother to feel abstractly

When all it is, is my time and my patience you loot.

The two twiddling hands of a clock strike me

Each tick reverberating through my consciousness

Each minute an explosion of practical thought.

Quixotic thinking demands acceptance,

Your search is battle better not fought.

Loneliness is what you use to lace,

For you claimed to love me

But you do not deal you run, and I must chase.

And now is when I am tired, here is where I am empty.

Raise a glass and regurgitate what grows within.

Smash it into the floor in some cathartic finding.

Your frown turns into a vacant grin,

It is to yourself you are lying.

We are unhappy without meaning,

Unhappy without care

Be the only one left searching

Be all alone if you dare.

The death of death is filled with many virtues

But in the search for its killer there are no clues.