Walking at Night

I often choose paths, less lit by afar, 
for there is little risk, in what's inevitably bright.

There are times, many times, where I'd rather not live, 

hence traveling dark paths especially during night.

Walking, passing, doubling back, caught staring.  

Through yellowed windows, a man sits at 80.

  

His chair, his posture, the TV, me at 80. 

Yellow walls, clear glass, flickering future, leather lazy.

Coasting by, I beg not, for old age comes to all.

Why rush what's inevitable, some do choose to fall. 

Why bother walking, when you can just sit and rot?

Because rotting is just sitting, when walking is not.

I feel pity, in my gut, for my life, for my choices.

Should I have changed? Never moved? Entertained other's voices?

What's real, what's fake, what's right, what's wrong.

Close your eyes, embrace the night, kiss and hum, cicada's song.

I know when I ask out loud just to die, 

all pain's remedied looking up at the sky.

Pacing the stars, late at night, grass soft, at my feet. 

Your chest bare, to my ear,  beat beat, a stammer beat....

If you walk, think of death; do choose a less lit path.

For we're all seeking answers, this here, aftermath.