When your closest friends
are dead
what's left to 
be said?
Nothing except
a fulsome regret.
We spend half our lives
speeding along the highways of desire,
putting our feet to the fire,
we luxuriate in time,
time laid up in store.
We think we know
what life is for.
Rich or poor.
We don't and never will.
Looking back I might as well
have lived with a sack over my head
unaware of the myriad of delights
one long day or one short  night could bring.
Death prods itself
into our consciousness: a car accident, 
an overdose of barbiturates, accident, murder.
Suicide is so fucking terrible, the regret is never-ending. 
Death's reality begins to spread
thickens in my head like the ripples born of a stone thrown
into a placid lake. Late, late, much, much too late. 

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