burning the skin grafts

so this is how it all ends.
not with a whimper, but with a withheld sob
and the sting of pink diamonds
biting into unloved flesh.
wealth so ostentatious the gall rises.
no more loving shadows in an attempt
to recapture the past, which may
(or may not)
have been just a momentary dream
lonely in the sunshine
swallowing every pill offered by every shady merchant
promising rainbows and crystals and miracles
getting nothing except fallen leaves
rotting sodden on the footpath
as summer rain pours down like a wail.

I cast it all away from me:
rip off the gauze while the wounds still suppurate
and return to what I used to be,
a world slow and quiet and hopeless
delicately cultured and alienated
seasoned with boredom and soaked in despair
but a world
that never broke my heart like this.

when my mind clears and I emerge from the drizzle,
when the feeling returns to my fingers,
when the light clicks on after a moment's eternity,
maybe then I will send a missive:
a most tragical mirth, both tedious and brief
and favour it all with a decent farewell.

then again,
of course,
maybe I will not.

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