Sniff of fetid air and I know I’ll be done soon

atop this stool kicked beneath

a broken neck.

They see me here,

this dreadful audience to bear witness,

to watch and do nothing but let me die.

Am I so wrong?

Have I so wasted my humanhood

that I am no longer fit to even draw breath?

I won’t think of what I’ve done,

the guilty crimes committed,

but it were all mortal happenings;

this moment is eternal,

etched in the air and along the stones

and sealed in the closing of my eyes,

the last second seen, heard,

stretched into an infinite timelapse

at the instantaneous collapse of my conscious

as I cast aside mortality

for angeldom.

I won’t think of the pain or

the rush of breath forcefully squeezed from my lungs.

I will think of the bended river

and the hills walked to reach its banks,

of a September day hot with the last stand of summer,

long grass yellowing caught tickling in the breeze,

puffy clouds perfect for naming shapes,

of you there, looking at me,

a breathless moment and your hand upon my hand.

I will think of