The suicides
gather on the beach,
laughing through holes
in their throats. Gesturing
with floppy, open wrists.
Weakness
is relative, they sing.
We killed
something we thought
was invincible.
The eye of this beholder
fills with tears — is this beauty?
Is bereavement
just a term of art?
Won’t know, they tell me,
until we meet again. Then
we can talk. Until
then,
assume
you know nothing.
Dark Matter 
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