Emotions At Death's Door

I want to die. Don’t call me a priest. I want to die. Don’t call me my mother. I want to die. Don’t call all those who believe to see my soul, Yet not know a moment of the ache Who cannot imagine beyond a prick to the heart I want to die. Don’t call all those who will say, “I know it’s . . . “ What do you know? What do you feel of me? Are we in this body together? Sharing this heart? This soul? This life? I want to die. Blind fold her I will. Take her to the edge of the skyscraper. 40 stories high, I will place you on the ledge And say to you, “Jump, my love. Die.” Then you will see, you need not a priest, nor your mother nor those we claim to understand. You need death’s door. At the door, you will say, “I want to live.” Humans. Older each day, yet children forever. We miss the beauty of life. We hate to live. We want to die. Once it is time, we want it no more. Flee death. Leave me to be alive.