Isn't it weird?
We find death beautiful.

The slow rotting of the leaves in the fall,
We reward old age among the elders in society.

Yet we fear death,
We fear the outcome; what will happen.

Sometimes we are annoyed with death,
at least among plant life.

We rake up the leaves,
we love them until they coat our yards,
becoming a burden.

With dead flowers,
sometimes people keep them.
Sometimes.

Other times they are thrown away,
a carcas of a beautiful life.

I live a dead life.

I'm living.
Not living.

Life is dull,
life is gray.

Life is death.
We're all going to die eventually.

We're dying now.
Our chromosomes are
breaking down as I type this.

I am young,
but I am dying.

We are living a dead life.