To become darkness, to blacken
as nightfall grays the room, to
dissolve into sonorous sleep,
effervescent, loosed from the body.

What greater ambition
than to unbecome the cruel
rhythms of beating your chest or
face against a wall.

What greater ambition
than to be bereft of muscle and
spleen — of your own rank flesh.

No greater gold can be mined
but this brief encounter with unbeing
knowing that, come morning, steam
from your lips is little more than

a mere trick of light —
mere selfull fancy.

Image: Carolina Pimenta on Unsplash

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