Why do writers,those aspiring to snag the 'dark and brooding' tag,obsess with death? Is it driven by the dread of posterity, the novelty of astral projections or by the embarrassing dearth of subject matter? For me it had to be the irresistible allure of immortality; fueled by the gore of goth, peppered with the subtlety of Sufi and tempered by the terse verse of a certain Ms. Emily Dickinson.
Here is an excerpt from a Dickinson inspired poem I had written as a supposedly angst ridden teenager.
Where to,does the winding path lead?
Covered with sand and cobble stones,
It must be the sleep that my soul will need need;
As I walk this path alone.
If that was death by verse circa 2003,here is death by verse circa 2008.
Sitting perched on higher ground,
I watch her lying,swaddled in a shroud.
Her lips are pursed,her eyes tightly bound,
Her arms folded,lest she be aroused.
I cannot,by the parchment kneel,
My own faint breathing I cannot feel,
For though she and I were once one;
Our present disparity cannot be undone.
The obsession continues as the verses continue to kill.
P.S.- Gone is the age of 'Death be not proud'. This is now the epoch of 'Death, thou art a dead bore'.