As I Die

I breathe water, I drink air.

The world is mine, none to spare.

But what will come when time is spent?

Am I alone, will I relent?

Ticking memories, passing cries.

I breathe water, I drink air.

The world is mine, none to spare.

But what will come when time is spent?

Am I alone, will I relent?

Ticking memories, passing cries.

This world is mine, inherit flies.

And yet I find myself at peace.

This sweet surrender, my death release.

Hot as ice, frozen steam.

I walk the rungs, my fingers clean.

The flesh in which I lived so long,

It’s melted off, my unheard song.

Sing to me, my dying light.

Hollow sounds, tortured night.

Before I’d worried where you’d gone.

But here you rise before the dawn.

By: Yours Truly

This world is mine, inherit flies.

And yet I find myself at peace.

This sweet surrender, my death release.

Hot as ice, frozen steam.

I walk the rungs, my fingers clean.

The flesh in which I lived so long,

It’s melted off, my unheard song.

Sing to me, my dying light.

Hollow sounds, tortured night.

Before I’d worried where you’d gone.

But here you rise before the dawn.

By: Yours Truly

Symphony Man

I believe in two things: Life & Death. What I have discovered about the two? They are both unbelievably far and incredibly close.

Symphony Man

The strings of the piano grow louder, strum, strumming the tune of the masked man. A candle 

flickers in the distance, tombstones rising from the upturned earth. Wriggling worms draw nearer. Voices of the damned rising above a silent reverie. This is the silence of the children, the flailing limbs of resting corpses. Rot. Oozing pestilence of unkempt flesh. Your deathbed, your soil ridden divan. Tip of the hat, your demise will not be commiserated. 

Condolences. Grievances. They usher you forward with offers of remembrance and fulfilling 

gratification. But these words are not for you, not your own to consider or accept. Poor student of reality. Have you entered a world in which you cannot escape? The coffin awakens near your side. Eyes like dusty marbles. Something you had expected? Considered? No, no she had swayed to and fro with the rest. A flower in the breeze, her twirling color of life slowly subsiding around her. You too have begun to fade. 

Fingers sleepily caress the piano keys as the crowd awaits your answer. The finale! Begin slowly, 

arise, crescendo. Sharp, sharp notes, high and low. A wave of trumpets filling your ears. Pounce on the 

ivory squares. Demand the attention. Push them higher, the twirling flowers dancing across the stage. The coffin closes, worms drawing back into dark holes. Children’s laughter erupts around you. B flat, E minor. Strum, strumming the keys! There will be no earthbound settee for you on this day, no pity. 

The notes linger in the air, rebounding between the seated ruby cushions. A woman holds her 

breath; the note cannot escape. She reaches, her arms open wide, a plumage of hair resting atop her 

powdered forehead. You watch the tension rise beneath her chest as the last upsurge builds beneath your fingertips. Her lips draw a breath, and then a magical bravado. The trill, the flowing F. Three octaves above middle C and your fingers grow persistent. Swaying harmony between pianist and libretto. Joy in this moment! 

Resting corpses be damned, this is not a day of demise. Never a day of failure. Tip of the hat, you 

have mastered the keys. Choral symphony of brilliance, Ode to joyous jealousy. Vienna’s jubilant 

applauding audience wishing you well. Ovation, yield to concentration. Your ended fortissimo, avoidant of musical limbo. Success, the crowd awaits your reception.

By Yours Truly: Michelle Salyga

Anonymous Wants to Know:

Dear World,

Today I found myself in the same bed as the night before, the same sheets pulled up to my chin, and the same man lying beside me. The room is a pale beige color, struck with accents of black furniture and brushed steel. To my left my phone rests beside a blue owl candlelight. In a few minutes the alarm will sound. The sheets are cream- which match the headboard- and the comforter is the duvet style. There is a masculine appearance to the bed cover, being that it is plain and white, but a hint of feminism shines through the lightly embroidered seams- which can been seen with intensified concentration.

I wake up with the same contemplations as I had fallen to sleep with beneath the fluff of down. Work. Play. Future parties. Past promises. Goals un-kept and goals just made. I’m careful not to move to abruptly. The light seeping in is bothering me. I can see blonde tufts of hair using my side-eye vision. Today is Thursday and I don’t feel like getting up.  I turn onto my side, the side that faces the wall without windows. This side of the room faces the closet, some doors closed and some open. I thrust my knee into the side of this man whom I sleep and wake with everyday. He responds and moves over exuding a faint grunt, which is barely audible. I rest my head between his armpit and chest; the faint scent of sweat and deodorant is still there. This spot is comforting to me.  He has the softest skin, much like a fresh born baby, and it feels pleasant against my cheek.

I am afraid of these moments, these comforts that have become a rhythmic piece of my life. I am afraid that one day I may not wake up to this familiar routine, this familiar touch. Each moment that transpires through time is another minute closer to an infinite number of unknown outcomes. Should we hide in these moments that give us satisfaction? Should we eliminate the possibility of loosing the rhythmic pieces of our heart? What would you do if you knew that when you died- you would never see him again? How close can you roll the dice, when the ending is already known?

-Anonymous

A Heart of Grapes

 

Do we die alone, or in being alone do we die?

She reaches for the last sip of wine, placing her mouth on the leftover lipstick stain. There’s a faint aroma wafting into her nose as it sinks further into the glass. For a moment there is no movement. This elixir, this sustenance of pleasure, awaits her lapping tongue. She breathes in, tilting her head back as the warm drizzle fills her mouth. And for a second her cheeks feel rosy and firm. But when the tingle weakens and the color fades, she remembers.

She remembers how many paychecks the bottle took away. She remembers how many bottles demanded a broken glass. She remembers how many broken glasses resulted in unresolved arguments. She remembers how many arguments led to a broken heart. And she remembers how many broken hearts it took to mistrust love.

 Tonight another bottle will be poured, a glass will break, and hands will run crimson. Tonight… a heart will die one more time.