Posts Tagged ‘death’

The world is a corpse,
Lain amidst rot and pus,
Split up and killed long ago,
Now nothing more than ore,
Nothing more than flesh,

We are vermin gnawing at the meat,
An infection borne of Mother Natures own seed,
Rats in tracksuits and skirts,
Stinking,
Malignant,

Deaths spectre strafes up above,
The barbers blade,
Picking us off one by one,
Dining upon our foul frail forms,
Eternal bird gets the worm,

But the reaper can only excise so many,
We’ve become quite the obstinate infestation,
We are legion,
So the only salve I fear,
Would be the sun stepping in,

And we all know what that means.

Beside me perches a dark omen,
An avian herald of ill outcomes,
An eye of Odin,
Such cold hunger in its obsidian sockets,
Why has he come?
Is it the end so soon?

Twitchy and cautious in demeanour,
Its beady oculi looking through me,
Perhaps focussing on the ripe spirit within,
I am carrion to this bird,
I know it,
But know not why,

He is joined by his murder of murderers,
A pack of little sin-eaters,
I can but only sit and watch in return,
They are no pale horse,
But to look upon them is to look upon true death,
An omen of the end.

In a land beyond consciousness,
Where the clouds and birds are frozen in time,
A soft brass tone echoing in the static air,
You find yourself fixated upon an empty coffin,
When you look at this vacant pine box,
What do you see?

A simple final destination?
An inescapable truth of being,
Perhaps a predator after your lifes blood,
Something to be afraid of,
An agitator for the hairs on your neck,

Maybe a cautionary icon?
A reason to look after oneself,
A reason to be thankful for the time you’re allotted,
Something to show respect to,
An apologia to strive for sublimity,

Maybe it’s a grim stimulant,
Galvanising your desire to overindulge,
Playing at gluttony and lust,
The coffin acting as a morbid objective,
Something to aim the crashing car at,

Only you yourself know your outlook on death,
So I ask you again,
What do you see when you gaze at an empty casket?

Bang!
An atom bomb is dropped,
A line goes flat,
The news is akin to a shockwave,
A crater is left amongst the family,
A surgery becomes a mausoleum,

Grief emanates from the hole like toxic waste,
Clouds of dark veils and funeral processions,
From the ground zero of your ties,
Mother and brother,
Sister and cousin,
Only a rubble of memories remains,

After a chemical wash of tears,
A vigil takes shape,
At the dinner table,
An empty seat reeks of fallout,
The radiation has permeated each heart,
The poisoning will linger for decades.

Do you think the Earth has a gravekeeper?
An elderly man worked to the bone,
Not truly living himself,
A retainer of Father Time,
Caked in mud of prehistory,

Tending to markers of civilisations that have fallen,
The graves of cultures rotting,
Peoples long past,
Traditions preserved in dirt and amber,
Their stories insulated against times decay,

He is a curator of memories,
Propagator of the ways of peoples of eld,
Pyramids and ruins and spires,
Egypt and Inca and Cree,
Among others these graves will not vanish into dust,

Whether lost to famine or conquest,
Plague or assimilation,
Old flames will be kept alive,
Flowers will bloom upon their epitaphs,
For all to remember and learn,

Our gravekeeper digs evermore,
His shovel groans in earnest,
All cultures fall to the grind of time,
All empires collapse,
Our western culture indeed has a grave waiting cleared.

Aloft I hold this charred skull,
In the parlance of Hamlet,
Mocking the heavens,
Eye to eye,
Ocular to cavity,
Azure to dark void,
A hateful grimace grows across my face,

I feel the desire to interrogate this spectre,
Of inevitability,
Of decay,
Of entropy,
Of black veils and autopsies,
The unwanted rest and ones left behind,
Of an end like a runaway train,

I hate all of it,
I hate you death,
I resent the fires of hell,
And the zephyrs of heaven,
I hate your wielder of the scythe,
I hate that you force this rot upon us,
I hate that this all ends,

In the laconic gloom,
I swear the skull grinned back.

Do you hear the sobbing?
Hades and the Reaper sit side-by-side,
Mourning,
But not for their expired charges,
But for their assumed roles as villains,
As monsters,

Among a garden of grey roses,
Huddled betwixt souls in repose,
Beside the Styx,
Thrust there by cruel circumstance,
One guides the dead to finally rest,
The other acts as caretaker and guardian,

And what do they receive for their service?
Fear,
The unerring terror of death,
They too prisoners of fates hand,
Hades laments his own torment,
Head in hands,

Their very purpose likened to evil,
But it’s a lie borne of fear,
Death is merely another step,
And its agents merely accessories to this end,
They reap no love though,
They merit pity not dread.

There will come a dark day,
As the candles grow delicate,
And your body finally feels lifes gravity,
When you must solemnly discuss,
With your kin and comrades,
About which kind of death you wish,
Ordained is the schedule,
But not so the modus operandi,

Do you run and yell impotently?
And be torn from the mortal coil by scythes force?
Do you have your time stolen by plague or happenstance?
And need to be carried beyond the styx by lifeless hands?
Or do you meet him calmly at your windowpane,
Take his cold hand and expire to the night?
These things must be prepared for,
Death is always approaching,

But will it be as a nightmare or old friend?
An ordeal or a release?

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.