Maybe

Maybe mercy, after all,
is to be dead, like the moon,
unfeeling to one’s freefall
and the cold night—needful boon
to not feel the creeping rot
as it eats your pockmarked face
while the hollowed heart feels not
the cold void of lifeless space.
Yes, the dead may be at peace
like the moon chained to earth’s side—
the living long for release
while tears swell at high tide.

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