The soft brush of death swings
past me. Too many
times I find myself embracing
its thoughts and its solution
but like everything else, it
is rejecting.

What does one due when
even death rejects them? Some
find comfort in self-pity. Others
seek themselves, searching planes
and realms unknown for a
better insight of themselves.
Some seek others, finding
care and love. But such
good things sometimes only
causes desperation when
they cannot be found, and
so many of us are so
weak-willed that we resort
to the cheaper releases
in life. Lustful sex, drugs,
crime, death. But even
those can reject.

An ironic infinity is
what it is.