Spiritual Suicide

Dead tree

This self-imposed exile
From you ethereal light
Is worse than I even imagined,
As though the chill of Niflheim
Has frozen my very soul,
Leaving me dead and numb,
Struggling to feel,
Fighting to do more than exist.
At this point I don’t know
If this is purification or asceticism,
But I’m no better off
Than I was a week ago.
Stripping your existence
From my everyday
Is a fate worse than Prometheus
Strapped to the rock,
Feasted upon for eternity,
But for me there is no healing,
No silver lining,
No reprieve;
There is only the darkness of abandon,
The sightlessness sans your radiance,
The emptiness without your embrace,
And the desert absent your tears.
And now I know that I cannot fear death,
Because I’m here already:
A walking corpse.


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