Posts Tagged ‘death’

Such childhood dreams I remember,
Of artwork and vividity,
Smiles were the way,
But then the conveyer belt fired up,
Careening me through a decided life,

It appears to this dreary soul,
That a lifes worth,
Such as it is,
Is merely based upon ones employment,
Dollar and stirling signs,

To contribute is just of course,
But life is not purely about what you can give,
In terms of finance,
We should follow Euphrosyne,
Not remain serfs to Plutus,

You are what you earn,
Does a bad back,
And a full pension,
Mean a life fulfilled?
Should respect be dependent on vocation?

We live to work,
And work to live,
But what about the end?
Will I too have to build my coffin?
Dig my own grave?

As I lay incapacitated,
Upon this grassy knoll,
My shoulder and lung run through,
By barb of crossbow bolt,
I spy my Lady-General,

A maiden of war,
This carnage is her dance,
Dashing from dance partner after dance partner,
Bestowing upon them crimson terminal flourishes,
Spewing ribbons and pyrotechnics to applause of screams,

This theatre,
Spanning over ruined meadows,
With fire and arrows overhead,
A charnel drama,
Host to my Ladys baneful ballet,

Chinks in mail,
Gaps in plate,
All find spots for her blades,
She leads the way,
Bringing the wardance to the enemy,

Morosely she kneels at my side,
“We are War”,
“But your dance is over”,
Wistfully pecking me farewell,
I fade into the abyss.

The smith sweats,
An armsworker,
Doing the work of shinigami,
Machining thanatos into steel,
Ore becomes death,

A masterwork,
An emotionless tool,
A cold weapon,
A true lifetaker,
A stygian masterpiece,

Harnessing thunder and hellfire,
The power of hades,
The power to take lives,
In one hand or two,
Exerting ones will through iron,

Stocks and smoking barrels,
Breathing fire and ash,
Charon on a bullet,
A life snuffed out,
The gunsmiths work complete,

Can he claim neutrality?
Does this artisan care whose life is ended?
Does this merchant burden himself with ethics?
Does this artist care how his art is wielded?
Is the dollar worth more than a life?

What went through your mind,
In those terminal moments?
As control was lost,
As the tyres cursed the road,
Before the impact,

Was it your family?
Your soon-to-be tearful spouse?
The little ones left behind?
All those holidays you’ll miss,
That place at the table nobody speaks of,

Or was it that last drink?
The sweetest of the evening,
The one your friends proposed,
The one nobody stopped you gulping,
Your conscience included,

Was it how you’d be if you made it?
The changes you’d make,
You’d get that new job,
Stop seeing that other woman,
Stop getting bags from that bad man,

As the vehicle careens,
It leaves tyre tracks,
Not only of obsidian rubber,
But also of a life of mistakes,
A car wreck of a life.

Life slips away,
So begins the last rites,
There’s no end to the ceremonies,

Cleanse the dead,
Wash away the sins and victories,
The cloth wipes away any humanity left,

Dress the dead,
Hide the scars we all made,
With a stately red tie,

Serenade the dead,
Tell lies and fake anecdotes,
Pretend you didn’t abandon them,

Bury the dead,
Hide it from our eyes,
Let us not see its white skin innocence,

Drink to the dead,
The rum and revelry shine on,
Heartache becomes headache,

Forget the dead,
Let them travel to the styx,
Onwards to the next one.

I once knew a vibrant soul,
A beautiful friend to all,
A wife and parent,
A mother bear,
A woman of boundless love,

We were not privy to her whole life,
But she exuded love and peace,
She supported so many of us,
Helped shoulder our mental weights,
Fondly indefatigable,

She left us,
Perhaps for a greater purpose,
Perhaps needed elsewhere,
To join the cosmic bulwark,
Against the evils of the universe,

She was a humble shieldmaiden,
But now she’s a valkyrie,
An ascended warrior,
A heroine of legend,
Rest in Valhalla my friend.

A broken soul,
Staring at these four walls,
I notice the ticking,
Incessant tapping,
Rattling my brain,
An unwanted roommate,

The clockwork prophet ever works,
It is the keeper of time after all,
Chronos incarnate,
A trickster of sorts,
Revealing the future,
Or perhaps revealing what we wish to see,

The clock reads the time,
But does it ever skip a few pages,
Does it know what’s coming?
But when questioned,
It responds only in ticks,
For its own amusement perhaps,

Time is fair so they say,
Like fate,
What happens will happen,
What will be will be,
Everyone follows the same chronology,
But we don’t all perceive it as such,

For some,
The time comes too soon,
For others,
It comes far too late,
The eleventh hour,
But one thing is certain,

The end will come regardless of the time,
The clockwork prophet on the desk told me so.

Death is my lord,
I am his reaper,
And his scythe,
My blade is his,
I am the Manhunter,

This long coat hides a herald of death,
He pays in cold coin,
And I pay in cold dead eyes,
Those whose time has come,
Those whom have his icy hand upon their shoulder,

My life was already taken,
Eons ago,
A bloody wedding gown and an empty crib,
Death made a joke that day,
I couldn’t help but chuckle,

I am the Manhunter,
Nothing personal,
Just business,
The cycle of life,
Even monsters must eat,

Do you feel his gelid breath?

Let me die,
Bleed out or succumb to plague,
Do not mourn for me,
Scatter me and my memories to obscurity.

Forgive me if you must,
But certainly forget me,
Reduce me to naught but ash,
Do not start a tears life in my stead.

I shall not mourn the passing of this world,
It is and was nothing to me.

Nihilism

That thing there?
That fetid and putrid thing there?
That stinking sack of necrosis?
That rotting monstrosity?
That musty cadaverous creature?
That insult to the senses?
You want to know about it?

That’s one of the writing dead.
See how it feebly grips the quill,
Rotting hands writing reams of scripture,
In this sacred crypt-cum-factory,
Soul-less eyes barely keeping track.
We constructed this abominations from our dead,
As hopeless in death as in life.

You see them now?
Rows upon rows of scribbling cadavers,
At oaken desks built from coffins,
Rotting in harmony with one another,
Decomposing guts spilling to the floor,
Skin decaying and yellow,
Scratching parchment in concert.

What do they write?
Further death sentences of course!
A most unholy charge,
Perfect for these unholy beasts,
Devoid of mind and soul,
Bereft of emotion and morality,
Without hope or aspiration.

I hate this one in particular,
This disgusting shell of a life,
I loathe its dead adoring face,
I despise its silver locks,
I abhor its stunted form,
I knew it in life,
It once called me Father…

Writingdead