death
crawls into
and out of
the ears
of a conscious mind
that never stopped
thinking.
from a young age
it followed the boy
until the day he became a man
and beat him back
into infancy.
for every birthday
it seemed like
the agony of lost companionship
and blood became-
a sort of present,
reminding him
that he was closer,
and that one day
death
would feel it's way
into his soul as well.
the worst thought
he ever pondered
was that of the
after;
the time in which something else might live to see a
life
without the
constant,
brutal,
aching
pain of the ever-so-infinite nagging of
death's
fingertips.
it was almost as if
the thought of dying
was easier,
less painful,
because all of his
life
he never knew hope,
although
he never was a stranger to it either.
but he gave up one day.
and he did die.
and that's it.
no one knows,
or had known,
or will know
what was to happen to him after that.
he just
died.
and people dressed in black and cried,
and said a prayer
or two
for his colorless
tumor he once had called
his own
flesh.
but he...
he lived after that,
in a sense.
he'd come to realize
in his final moments that
death
would always be
there,
knocking on the door,
tall,
thin,
and deceitfully handsome, beckoning for the second
he turned the ****.
so that he did and-
only then
would he ever know that
life
is the only true
death-
that everything was
backwards.
he'd always hated
death,
despised it
for it's
selfishness
and the way it inflicted
pain
on everything it touched-
but only then
when the last gasp
of air drew from his
lungs,
did he know that
death..
death
is
the
only
escape
from
life.