Death
is a foolish
construct

When we die, we simply
transform
from one body
to the next
We dump one
skin
like a worn out shirt
with holes and stains

When we die,
our souls ascend
leaving only a filthy pile of
meat
behind

Meaningless
Meant to be cast aside and
left
to
rot

And yet, like the foolish
mortals
we are
desperate for life to
mean
something
we take these empty
rotting
bags of bones
and build homes for them
and place them in the ground
and pretend that they will be safe
in their wooden boxes
avoid thinking about the arthropods
that will find their way inside
and clean up the mess
they left
behind

We cry
We weep in front of a
slab of rock
and leave flowers
for insects
rot
and bones

We mourn them
As if they have vanished
never
to be seen
again

We are so blind that we believe this
miserable place
is all
that there is

We need not look down
when seeking those we have lost
but up

For they have not died
not really
they have simply journeyed
to a better world

They wait
patiently
for you to follow
But you are afraid
We all are, no matter how we deny it
We fear oblivion
Nothingness
For we do not understand
who
we
are

Death, you see,
is a foolish
construct