Little Deaths

Each day is closer to the end, yet we choose to continue in the pattern.

Little Deaths

If I stop being kind,

I stop being myself

Which is worse:

A body in the ground,

Or a soul gone numb?

Physical death is easy

a breath released,

a weight undone.

But living? Living is hard.

Yet we still choose it

the cruel irony:

clutching suffering

like a lover,

while oblivion

waits,

arms wide

and silent.