The only days Death has ever drawn close to me were when he left his shadow grazing over this frail body.
Sleep deprived, feverish, weak heck of a boy.
A soul so agonised over the war within, a mind so twisted and perverse. A heart, that still beats however crooked.
A body, weak; a human, depraved.
I remember those days.
Sickness pays his visits over the seasons.
Fevers, influenza, intense food poisoning, coughs so bad I end up praying "Lord, have mercy" each time.
Yet, I see others like me
Suffer disease like they've gone through hell
Got into accidents that'll take them a while or never to get back from.
See the news and see people close to me been closer to Death than I've had before.
I laid back and watched the sky as the clouds flew by
It just hit me that
one day, it'll be me.
God help me, I'm no different.
I'm barely even a saint
Just as evil as everyone else
To think that in my youth, I'm some sort of a god
an invincible immortal that could ascend the heights and become the greatest of them all.
But then I look at the sky, and wonder
"What is man, that You think of him? And the son of man, that You visit him?"
I am reduced to nothing, my passions, dreams and ambitions are all but folly-- vanity of vanities like chasing the wind.
I am losing my edge. I no longer write these poems the way I used to. I take longer to write essays. It gets more difficult to stay faithful in the faith that I have. The "amazing" parts of me are fading, bleeding, dying. It gets just as difficult socialising when you are not the extrovert you used to be.
Death has already been part of the default nature I so have, though I do not yet taste it.
Still I crave for Life, clinging on to Hope.
Still I live, for Love's good name's sake.
Still I live and wage war against Death, aspiring to be a vessel to preach the Good News of Eternal Life.
Indeed I am unworthy, day by day I am undone.
Yet even more so, though I may die
For now, I shall live.
I'm tired, lamenting, yet hopeful
