i could get mad,
why the wind blows
from a certain angle,
rage, rage against the dying of the light!
i could get sad,
and let my tears be blades
that slice my skin
stretched out across a quack’s table;
the wick inside is rotting flesh.
i could get bad,
and set fire to the rain,
let my anger evaporate
every bit of hydration,
though my skin is dry and in starvation.
or i could leave behind my snuffed out candle,
open the window and take a look outside,
the sun is bright,
look up instead.