The Afterlife

One hundred thirty-one days

since the attempt

to free this carcass

from my deranged soul.

Unsuccessful—

and still

my anthill body, bloated and old,

a misfortune told.

Seventy-five days

since the attempt

to fill the holes,

to cast the hollow paths

from head to sole.

Newer thrills, newer roles—

on pills just to feel

whole

again.

I still go,

dragging myself from where I've been,

dragging the weight of my old ways to live—

by merely existing, and existing, not for me

rather than setting a course,

a purposeful goal,

like any human being. like me

Like how I was born to do,

like I was supposed to,

for this piece of my mother’s womb

I was gifted to.

I know:

this is a chance to renew—

but how could be revived

what was never alive?

I know,

I don't deserve to die.

But how could I deserve to live—

and waste everyone’s time?

If this soul—

deranged,

desiring beyond natural style—

is anything,

perhaps something like a cloud:

'cumulus' in mind,

liquid and high,

free-floating through skies.

A brief shade, I could only bring

for some who needs it

before I disperse

wherever I’m taken

or I wanted

I would be happy I guess

if that was my origin

if I wasn't wrestling to be proven

or preparing for an ending