The Enigma of Suicide

I take the rope to hoist myself up with a copy of my head, comforted by lions of substance that plunder my emotions to shed, for I have marched in a parade of solitude in a void to saunter in an unexplored patch where I drift like ants in hose-water; this sorrow ever awaits my joy with the lucifugous inertia of life, rendering me to pieces in famished happiness of consistent rife; my thoughts paint me like death as I drown in rememberance that showed treason to the faithful heart of clairvoyance. To my melancholic soul in misery I raise a wreath of black flowers, shedding tears with mournful valediction on a bridge in dark hours where sinister and clustered shadows drink deep into my soul as I stand with a blackened chest that my phantom's control; tears welling in my swollen eyes resplendent in summer's ash, my cries filling the air in a tuneless voice of a requiem's brash to gorge on solitude and slake sorrow that can bear no lament, pulling me deep into darkness to devour me in torment. I mark my eyes with perpetual stains of lifeless life and dust as others will taste my ruin in the dull ear of God's trust on a flower strewn from the earth upon my bruised head to ashen my soul in the fragile and forsaken isle of the dead in crippling words that scattered me in a pattern of lies to not merely draw in air but to breathe in the skies as the true manifestation of struggle to slice my wrists in the soul of this dark night where I will cease to exist. I am made blind with weeping as I will mourn to my death, wailing and breadless with the taste of ruin upon my breath with amorous eyes as the hour of parting is at hand and the failure of warmth as I jump from where I stand.