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Ode to a Weakling

This numbness falsifies,
and does it perfect me
into feeling once more like,
sifting away from peace-
astray and erratic,
where is he?

a light does luminesce,
even through all the slings
and arrows that prevent it
from shining atop of me.
He can see me
shining his light.

a vast hole does grow
so rapidly in the depth
of my infected interior;
can I not grasp it,
so boundless,
as he is now?

a pale face does show
this frailness seems to
quickly becomes of me
but they all cannot see.
It washes over,
to his aura.

a reflection does maim,
for I take my last breath
but I am jealous of he,
who found the answers:
what death is,
missing piece.

this phosphoresce is
blinding, the last breath
droning on and on until
I see his face again.
He closes my eyes,
concordance, him.

A/N: This is for someone, and this is for those feelings I have or that anyone has of wishing they had the guts to kill themselves... and find out with death is.