Madman

Last night, I saw a man die.

He shot himself. In his damn mouth.

Nothing more, nothing less.

His demise wasn't tragic nor dramatic.

'Twas pitiful, let me tell you.

An agonising groan.

His flaccid body falling gently on his resting place: a dirty sofa, in a dirty flat in Florida.

The sound of gurgling liquid,

the last echoes of his misery.

They found him two days later,

 among obsession and filth

foul odour and malignant insanity.

It is haunting, in a fashion.

To know that death is prosaic.

It is not romantic nor blue in the eyes.

It is cold and gross

static and vulgar

but, above all else, it is cruel and exact.

Poor miserable madman.

Poor, poor, poor.

Not a single tear I shed for him.

Why would I? Why would I?

He did not spare us his insanity.

We will not spare him our morbidity.

It all reminds me

(and it should you)

never to invite death into mind nor soul.

For life's glory will remain and us, begone (much too early, much too ruefully);

never to admire it all once more.

For where will we be

if not in a tiny window

for all eternity and all eyes to see.