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noetic suicide

23 April 2010

the thousand little deaths each day
build up, one by one, deep inside
where the mind cannot reach
the spirit cannot breach the walls,
and in the carven halls of bliss
the nous is strangled by thoughts of this

and if this is all that is?
troubled sighs and angry breaths
exhale…exhale…exhale
but can the devil in hell be more sure
than the certainty of the thing
that knows it cannot be, and is;
that knows it cannot last, but builds;
that knows it must not go on,
but how to end? the end is unfathomable–

for the night is dark, and full of terrors
and that terrible, perpetual choice between
the Queen’s substance and the Queen
throws into sharp relief the essentia
of the whole dilemma:

what can a man do, to ease his pain,
when the joys in life are essentially the same
as death by any other name?

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