Opulent Death

I dare not life to be an opulent contingency of death. The slowest of deaths.

Titanic verticality. Horizontal superavit.

Ah, bittersweet incongruous death.

Scarlet letter of freedom, true katana of time.

How you’ve been taking sweet care of me although I never promptly embraced the thought of you.

Hey death, my poor child, my sweet glow. Men is not made to understand your worth. Your worth is not meant to be felt or seen. And you, recessive death, is not made to ever feel alive.

You are not alive, you are not dead. You are death.

You baptize people your touch

You credit all debt

You pile all beings

You give them purpose

As much as you steal their woe

You smoke their soul

With true lack of control.

You enjoy what you do

But you never do it for you.

You embrace every being

But no being embraces you.

What direction you flow, death?

Point the way cause I’m about to pray

Not for me, not for you

But to the true sound of blues.