Romanticized Demise


There are monsters inside us all. It is up to us to escape our own hell.

Grace Hanks, Staff Writer

Floating endlessly beyond the blank pages

lost behind the fluttering meaning

flitting and flying between the moving lines

around, around, around, I go,

color and blood in my eyes.


Here, now there

anywhere but everywhere,

only thirty minutes to fly sky-high,

only thirty minutes to end a life.


Far and few between I find

quite enough time

to change.



What went



Where I failed,

and where you fell,

are in different places.


To be so foolish

we were,

thinking it a race.


Thirty minutes held you fast,

determined I was

to make you last


As your dying breath conceived

three words telling

of how you loved me.


Of how you lie.


I continued holding you close,

unwillingly apathetic,

lovingly bringing my hands to caress your face.





My hands…

My hands…




‘Round your throat,

like a vise,

as I vaguely remember

your blood

red as a glowing ember.


Now I want brimstone

through my gardens,

as I see roses

set up with flames.


I lose my mind,

paranoid of the world,

and the way it deceives me,

I am

oh so tortured.


I’ve been settling

too many scores,

and I’ve been fighting much too long.


Had an exit been apparent,

would I have taken it?


Would I?


Will I?


Thirty minutes I find

to finally decide


For you have gone way of all flesh,

as a consequence of

my own pride.



Don’t mind me dear,

as I spill my guts out onto the floor.

Forget the dark, ugly stain on the rug,

It’ll be gone soon



Not washed by my own hand, I’m afraid,


the uniformed men who find me here,

led by a concerned phone line through the sky.


The men that come a-knocking on your door,

wondering how, oh how,

could this have happened.


Only you shall not be there to answer.

you’ve been gone for too long.

they will find an empty house,

a corroded abode,

not even plagued by your spirit.



how could you have left me so?

Within the thirty short minutes,

The thirty white lies,

The thirty million years I cried.


How, I cry and cry.

It’s but a jest,

After all, who delivered your demise?

It was I.