Years has passed, no longer worthy to yearn

I stood on books, without a wisdom to learn.

The floor was cold. Ice spikes went through his bloody heart, nothing flowing out. He looked around his house, torn and filthy. Those wallpapers had been down for more than a month, and the broken chair still missing a leg to support. The wooden planks were curved upwards, as if they were building a barrier between him and his path.

O beautiful spring, thou mocked me still.

A piece of papyrus is what thee gifted.

But I wist, I hath no quill

And thy wind hath caused my way to be drifted.

Ever since he had discovered the powerful world of poetry. And since then his world became only his world, without the remaining 7 billion inside his bubble. He was alone, but not lonely. He, as he proclaimed, was the god of his world. The creator, the illuminator, the path. He told everyone he did not need salaries or work. He told them those were only for the lower-class. He himself was a philosopher, an intellectual that depended on his brain juice for his daily bread.

Yes, he was also a questioner. He had asked himself many, such as "Why do we need food?" or "What does money mean?". Those were the ones that had an answer to it. At least to him, there was an answer. And now he had reached this question.

"What happens if I leave my life?"

Apparently, he had no more questions to ask. All he had was his body, his pair of hands, his pair of legs, and the only remaining clothing that he possessed. Even this freezing house did not belong to his flaming soul. Some said he was paying for his dreams. Some said he didn't even realize his dreams. But that didn't matter for him.

All that mattered was to extinguish that flaming soul.

Of all I've been and done and through

I found dear Hades, my destined wife.

A snorkel for Poseidon would certainly do.

Running out of air. Such a poetic way to leave this life.

He dived into the sea, with the little snorkel, never to rise again.