All ways blocked, and future gloomy; suicide seems bright and roomy;
Now’s my chance for rebirth, I will leave this dismal life role.
I’ll return as Queen of Sheba, or a vampire, or a reaver,
or a saint who cures the nouveau riche, a wonderous, wealthy soul.
Yes, you see, I’ve found my niche, to preach and prosper, marvelous goal!
(Pills I took just took their toll.)
Now I feel my limbs start numbing; still my brain is bright and humming:
Opiates are worth exploration, Percoset’s a true vacation.
Who’s afraid of drug addiction? Warning labels purport fiction.
Strange, my blood’s slow circulation --- what’s up with my respiration?
Is this my Death’s anticipation? Death now or imagination?
Death’s approach now, or elation?
As my last act I will vomit, weakened, I will choke upon it.
As it turns out, life is real; and death the realest part; I depart.
While I thought of death as drama, it became this final trauma:
Painful ebbing consciousness, in shit and urine, and this last fart.
Life continues always, right? Now stop this, God, I need a new start . . .
(Cause of death, attack by heart.)
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