The Art of Dying

depression—
mysterious and elusive
silent suffering

sadness—
debilitating and endless
near paralysis

madness—
lost and found
fleeting luminosity

this strange
contentious
volatile
relationship that we,
the writers,
have with death and dying

not dying of disease or heartbreak,
not dying of old age or sickness
but dying of life

to watch the skin open
like liquid flower
blood coursing out, where it shouldn't be
on the floor, from your wrists
then,
silence

depression is abstruse
sadness is arcane
madness is esoteric

but, dying?
it is an art form that
humanity does so poorly,
but I?

I do it well