by Nick Gisburne
A speck, a cinder, infinitely small,
In life I find no meaning, though I try.
The most corrosive consequence of all
Is knowing I can never truly die.
He sold me immortality, but not
The means with which to comprehend my kind.
The body lives, impervious to rot,
But offers no protection to the mind.
In every mote of madness I collect,
I see the man who crushed me with its curse.
The universe may burn, but I suspect
My soul will rise to write another verse.
No god, not quite, yet more than just a man,
I search for death, for closure, where I can.
