what we fear as death is just
decor.
victorian, french country, industrial,
rustic;
doesn't matter.
the bones are the same.
some people expire smiling in
neon pink plastic lawnchairs
or pierce the veil ******* themselves on dove-grey french provincial settees from the 18th century.

we have numbed ourselves in our
endless pursuit of complexity;
walked off the precipice of that
final ecstatic unraveling
while wide-eyed and trembling
at the sight of aesthetics,
as cheap as they are fleeting.

we must garder à l'esprit that it all burns to ash, singular in characteristic, that is scattered by winds indifferent to any distinguishable feature in the
many beliefs twisted into the teeth
of sleeping behemoths dreaming of feasts they had yet to awaken to.

it, what we fear, is shapeless.
the absence of all accumulated
delusion, confusion, or fluid lucidity.
ancient.
a non-locality that is the total
sum of the All collapsing in on
it's most basic components
also collapsing in on...elsewhere?

i'm done.
please, come and sit.

tell me how you like your tea?