i imagine
it will be days
before my body
is found
eventually
work will have
to call in
a wellness check
it isn’t as if
it is unusual
for me to vanish
then i get sick
and morbid
the reality of
solitude settles
and i wonder
if the cops
will be called
because of
the aroma drifting
through the
paper thin walls
nothing left
of the incredible
hyperbolic
bipolar poet
but a bloated corpse
putrefying in bed
liquefied eyes
maggot strewn
still staring up
at that fucking ceiling

life is quite
the fickle bitch
constantly struggling
from one almost
certain doom
to another
until finally
the death defying
turns into a
bitter acceptance

i have lived
with every emotion
turned up to
one thousand percent
so every word
i ever said
i meant
no matter how
far fetched
it sounded
i hope that is
the lasting impression
not the final image
of what is left of me
being wheeled out
by the coroner

murmuring softly
this too shall pass
on and on
into the darkness