With My Dying Breath

* My take on the theme of my contest. Just for fun. A canopy of silvery stars speckle the ebon expanse above me, at once beautiful but at the same time, taunting. For if these jewels in space were sculpted by a benevolent Creator, why will their beauty be the last thing these eager eyes ever witness? Each one of them is like an orb of God, glaring at me in a most menacing way, as if to say, "You, fool. Did you really dare to imagine your delusional dream might actually come true?" In the foreground, Dante's Inferno plays out in full force as the wails and moans of the dying spawn a symphony of mournful misery. From my perspective near the stern, I espy the mannequin faces of those in lifeboats, as if they were already dead, though living. I can't help but wonder what their thoughts are. Do they see me, or am I already a sunken spectre, an illusion of formed matter? Oddly, in this maladroit moment leading to my demise, I feel more alive than ever before. All of my senses are hyper acute and contribute to an uber perception of being. There is a strange peace that envelops me, like an aura of protection. At the same time, my heart is troubled, not so much for myself, but for the poor waifs in the water who are now frozen floes in miniature. To be sure, I am destined to join them in this final, unenviable Danse Macabre on the stage of this icy cold abyss. I have been a poet for most of my life, yet poetic words and devices fail me now. A renowned publisher in New York City had accepted and approved for publication my first book of poetry. We were to convene upon my arrival to consummate our new partnership. That was the dream. But now... I find myself angry with God, though my conscience troubles me for feeling this way. All my life I have been taught that if a person lives right, avoids all of the vices and prays daily, His guardian angels will care for us and safeguard us from harm. On the other side of the ship, musicians are playing 'Nearer My God To Thee.' Yet, I feel so dreadfully distant from Him tonight. Why is he doing this? I just turned twenty-five this week! In a few moments I, along with the rest of the Devil's damned will spend eternity in a Satanic sea of salt and seaweed, forever trapped in an unholy and wretched watery grave. Why me? And thus I put these last thoughts to pen and paper, to be sealed and perhaps discovered one day in this empty, expensive bottle of wine I imbibed with friends only a few hours earlier. Interestingly, my muse has stirred within me a brief epilogue to my sad story. It is simply this: dream on, believers reach for the stars and beyond fear not the morrow for the morrow shall come and who knows the destiny of fallen mankind whether ill or good therefore, seize the day my friends before night arrives when dreams are silenced and remember the cursed ones (I plead) please, remember me