I know death

I know it well

The way that it tastes

The way that it smells

I’ve worked my way

Across its lands

Through treacherous landscapes

With my life at hand

I know death

I know all it’s madness

The fear that it promises

Inside the void of its blackness

The things that it tells you

When you’re down on your knees

How it whispers it’s promises

Like the wind and the trees

I know death

Because I’ve lead it inside

Through the depths of my heart

Leaving nowhere to hide

I’ve watched it spill over

Till it turned the waters dark

Within my bones and my blood

Biting down till it left its mark

I know death

The sweet seduction of its deceit

The comforting lies that it will tell you

A bitter taste that once was sweet

In all the ways it’ll lure you

It has lured me without repent

Too many times for me to conceal

The things I’ll never quite forget

Nothing resists forever

Nothing outlasts time

but

Our hearts thump

With the undeniable certainty of

A graveyard’s slow march over an empty field

#poetry, #death, #heart, #inevitability

We used to be friends,

My life and I.

I think it was almost love,

Real and benign.

For a large portion of two decades,

This was not a facade.

But some relationships crumble,

At the face of death,

As did I --- breaking every rule,

I set up for life itself.

Death looked bright and full of hope

Desperate, I bought a sturdy rope.

The shaking stopped soon,

The weight dipping down.

A tall blackness sheathed me,

A quiet pain bequeathed to me...

But Death knew me well.

And knew I'd make it out---

Once again.

Breath filled my lungs,

Blood throbbing against my forehead,

I collapsed, but didn't die.

They pulled me up, they said I'd live.

They asked me to hold on,

And begged me to forgive.

Perhaps I had always known,

I would heed their advice;

That I would rebuild my life and outlive---

the broken stems of heartbreak, the slow torture of the world,

The promise of pain, I thought I knew death well.

But Death had known me better.

#Life

#Time

#Pain

#Love

#Hope

#It isn't time yet

#Hold on

#Get help

#Life is your friend

there are strings that cross my path.

they are gray and wispy, barely ankle high

and yet i step around them carefully.

i have never seen them move alone

but i know what lives and dies.

and these do neither.

there is a difference of

death's familiar spider-like hands

and these gray, reaching things

that catch at my shoes and drag past

my legs, with no end to their

length and numbers.

they are seen and never heard.

and i have to confess that i

prefer death, over thousands of pairs,

each crossing the other in still air.

death is a kinder soul

and one i know through dread.

these gray strings killed my friend.

now i walk as careful as i can,

because if the strings shake or

god forbid, one of them breaks.

you'd better stay the fuck away

or pray that it already ate.

Death.

fInality.

mortAlity

Massacre.

loatheD.

fEared.

dreAded.

beauTiful.

almost lightHearted.

peaceful.

agonizing.

so painful,

you cry to the heavens,

tears trickling down your sunken cheeks,

while my frozen, bony fingers around your soul,

in a cold embrace.

I squeeze.

Once.

Twice.

I stare into your eyes.

one.

final.

inhale.

one

final.

exhale.

The End.

I

am

Death.

I know myself the best.

I'm no respecter of person.

Young or old.

Rich or poor.

Good or evil.

I'm not evil or good.

I just am.

I am simply a means to an end.

To cross the bridge. And climb the stairs.

And I am waiting for every single one of you.

I am Death.

And I'm dying to meet you.

I know Death. I know it well.

How can I not know who Death is?

The figure who crept over my father’s dying, but determined, fighting body and trailed a bony finger down his chest as he smirked, watching my father slip before me with content.

“Baba, Baba, Baba!” I murmured, my fingers curling into his feeble, limp ones.

A small chuckle emerged from Death and I watched it put a thin, black leather half finger gloved hand on Baba’s chest.

Baba stopped breathing.

His eyes shut gently and his hands fell open. I blinked once, twice, thrice, trying to play it off as a figment of my imagination.

Baba’s chest did not rise.

Baba’s hand did not tremble.

Baba’s eyes did not open again.

Baba is dead.

Gone.

“No, no, no, Baba...” the tears were ready to fall out any moment, but I resisted them.

I wanted to see the bastard who took my father.

It was a cloaked figurine in an ebony robe, with a black bandana concealing his mouth and nose. From what I could see of its face, it had dark eyebags that looked like they were permanently etched under its eyes. Its eyes were a mysterious cloud grey, ones that seemed so beautiful and precious for a grotesque, apathetic, and disconsolate thing. They didn’t suit it.

I glanced at Death and it glanced back at me. There were millions- no universes of things I wanted to scream at it. But they never, and to this day, still never string together the fury and somberness I felt and still feel.

Death’s thin eyebrows knitted together and it said in an eerie, yet, collected tone, “I’ll be back soon.”.

When the last letter escaped his mouth, I threw my hands at him, trying to strangle him.

But he evanesced away.

And there I sat with Baba’s frigid corpse.

Confused, enraged, and sorrow, all at once.

Every moment it hunts for me.

It sometimes succeeds in my nightmares. Day after day wake to breathe life, but its always to the side waiting for you to mess up enough to f*** you up for good. Time and wisdom accumulated to the point where the prey became the predator; on seemingly even terms playing the chess game except death always have the last move.

they're / clients

stale breathes of those left unbreathing; their skins pale but there’s something about it. fingernails kept growing, you urge to clip the secrets off of them. as the tongue’s dangling, trying to taste what’s left. when things are left unmoving they seem so pretty-there’s an innocence to them. 

t i m e / d o e s / d a m a g e

are we willing to admit, things are better left unsaid? we’re dressed before we’re buried--why’s that? we can’t face the world without pretense, so we can’t face an afterlife with playing pretend. if i had a nickel for every time i faced a dramatic event i’d be a rich man; then i’d make you promise i’ll be buried with my riches hidden in the folds of my skin so i have something to offer the heavens.

cold / blooded / viruses

disease embraces the cadaver before crawling its way onto your skin: claws chipped and naked, tips dipped in desire; skin slime and laced with poisoned promises. “too close for comfort” the saying goes, something you only know when your bones have burned and pieces of you lay in ashes picked up by wind. hand a broom the corpse’s hand.

part / of / the / job

if the fountain of youth existed, it’d put you out of business. that’s why you stained the maps by your blood and took small pieces of them, sewing them into your skin and braiding them into the bits of your hair. after you’ve bathed your life in test results revolving around the dead, nothing messes with your head. when you’re asked to take the teeth of a dead man, you start collecting them in your hands, and their clattering sounds like bells of a marching band.