I dreamed my own death,
last night:
dug down deep through
dirges and dingy old dirt
my bed and my tomb are
one and the same.
like a blanket the dirt piles above
and like a mattress the
dirt layers below.
it gets so tiring,
sometimes;
sleep is a cousin to death.
there are loved ones
sobbing far away and
others laid around me,
lost and caught among
the endless eddies and streams
of neverending loneliness
that we all have felt,
some time.
it is a common experience,
a collective, conscious thought--
we float up and out of our bodies,
our gases and our atoms mixing with the
dirt,
the mud,
the worms and
the bodies
and the
ever-lost matter
of countless others come before
and countless more come
after.
we are all living in order to die as
after our death there will be nothing added
and nothing left;
the base materials,
the elements and bits of star stuff
have always been
and always will be
even when they are not
us.
really,
it is the
accepting of our own
demise--
our ashes to ashes and
the plastering of the
dustiest of dusts
that shall settle
and lay on thick
in layers and levels of
lost and loopy illuminations
of a mind that is filled with holes and rot.
I'm running out of breath