They struggle in the Throes of Death, the Little Ones

reposing this one – it’s appropriate now.  it’s not about killing children.  it’s about killing true love, which is the same to me as killing children


They struggle in the throes of death, the little ones.

The little ones we kill.

They thrash through the night – wild monologues escape their frothy lips

or sometimes we engage, and they become dialogues.

Some passages of lucidity. Sometimes they reach some truth within themselves.

Had they only found it some other time – not now, in the early hours of the dawn of their own demise

–Because life and its lessons my not be relevant to death

– as now, here, truth  gives their voice such a timbre of solitude, amidst the surrounding silence.

They call and plead. That is painful for me. It is. I am not completely heartless,

though a true killer of love.

Some times they recognize me, their euthanist, in the hollow chambers that darkness creates, darker, I sit, silhouette,

And shout their scorn at me

but I am made of paper, it seems.

The pulse subsides with the sunrise – down to a trickle, and single text: “I love you.”

And then all is quiet again.

Just like it was.

Just the way we like it.


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