While going through some ancient e-mail messages in my Yahoo!Mail just now, I discovered the following poem, which I wrote early this year (4 March) but only sent to the Phases and d'NA mailing lists.
Looking back, I am rather mystified as I cannot recall the exact circumstances that led me to write what I did. Nevertheless, I rather like its raw, driving nature, and it is reproduced here complete and unabridged.
Feel free to comment; I would really appreciate it.
Die in His Hands
"You're right. It would be better to be dead than to live with this creature... Damn and blast you! Go on, can't you? Get it over. Do what you like... God help me. God help me."
-- C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce
Like a drop in the ocean
The sun in the ocean
I fall into emptiness unknown
To my senses, to my hopes
To my dreams, to my fears.
Deserving to die
Yet dreaming to live
The only hope, the dying hope
A candle snuffed in the mid of day.
Tearing myself to pieces
Thrown onto the altar
Burnt as a sacrifice
Unto whom I do not know.
My blood drips from
The little slits I carved
With my knife;
A pretty wrist no longer
But scarred for life
Stupid impulses stay longer than well thought out plans
And the mosquito more potent than the blade of grass
Each bite, each cut, deeper and deeper
Into the heart of it all, where
The charred remains of life
Lie still untouched by the morning breeze.
Not fear of the morrow, but agony of the present
And regret for the past,
Driving me to the point of no return.
I wish to die, to die, perhaps never again to rise;
I will die, but only in his hands.
In the hands of my Creator, the one who breathes life into dust
Will I die, a death of countless days,
Christ, my suicide --
Die, to die, but only in his hands.
Die, and die
And die in his hands.