weeds.

Death and Me

I feel I am an ill starred thing.

 A product of some great cosmic irony.

From this rotting body, flowers shall grow. And I am them. And that is eternity.
I dig my mortal fists into the earth, to beseech the soil for less than forever.
To find anything that will imbue to me the reason why this mother won't release my hand.

Release me to play amongst the stars, like some tragic, banished god, freed from their endless fate.
Freed from their name.
I hold my breath and will my soul to burst from me. I flow into the haze, and what's left of my body sinks into the grass, hair caressing the upturned turf.

There's a violent stillness.

Mist oozes from the resurrected sod, and I take hedonistic gulps of it.
The air invigorates my bitter, feeble body and I am forced once again to feel the simple blessing of dirt trickling across my hands, peppering soft kisses unto my skin.
The nature of nature is that of a sadist, laying a kiss with each fate-sealed slap.
I wrench free my willowy fingers from its grasp, tending to them like sweet, bruised saplings, pulled from their beds before sun.
Soothing their soft creaks and moans.
Showing them tenderness in a world that would rather see them wither and die.

My body barrels deeper into the ether. My mind's stillness an invitation for it to swallow me, bones and all. To send me to heaven.

I'm a lonesome migrant bird, flying between victim and voyeur, wings flapping aimlessly as I lose myself between.
As I'm swept up into the toying wind's fingertips, I will look down on myself from that shrouded apex, and watch my distant reflection repeat the same fate anew, as has been its curse since it was born.

And when the voices from the heavens scream for the encore, I will rise again, as some drunken god marvels at my misfortune, and floods the skies with his mirth.

Sweet benevolent despot, sit me on your lap and tuck my hair behind my ear.
Tuck the entrails you ripped out back into my corpse, and praise the freshness of the falling blood.
For I chose you to own me before I was myself at all.
Just dripping veal on a frame for you to caress.
I wish I never allowed you to satiate your craving. To dig your fingers deeper between my ribs and devour the innocence left.
That spring lamb spoiling betwixt your thighs is more than cannon fodder.
Its cloying scent wafting will scorch the hair from your nostrils, and remind you why you condemned it to its wretched forever.

At death, will I run into the outstretched arms of a god that never loved me? To a father that was never there?

On the trail I trudge, misfortune blooms quietly.
Its petals adorned with dew from the clouds on which the truculent gods perch.
With the creeping allurement of my surroundings, I am bludgeoned with satire.
Acidic, it clings.
It's carried by the wind and follows with each flat-footed step.
The forest is filled with covens of bloodied mangled corpses, hidden by the embrace of the trees.
Just beyond the canopy, there are piles on burning pires, their glow a lantern guiding the way.
A saviour.
 To trust the fickle beauty of a flower in these woods would make me a fool.
The end for all who part here is second rate.

When the curtain falls, the fabric is without lustre.

On their stage, what descends is moth bitten muslin that sweeps dust onto its departed starlets, and concludes a story without a plot.
Those stage lamps extinguished are forgotten, their curling smoke just ash to fall upon the sod. 

The spirit of this olde canebrake has shaken hands with the horrors of modern warfare.
Their sweat mixes together and rains upon this glade, anointing the living with the knowledge that death is coming for them, and will take with it all that they loved and were.

The thought of my inevitable end forces bile to rise from my throat, forcing tears to the precipice that fall and meet their demise.
They are braver than I.

In dreams, I'm weightless.
My body drifts across the sky, carried by the soft chortles of the breeze.

I'm travelling beyond where clouds can catch me.
Beyond the reach of any frantic, outstretched arm watching me pass them by.
No screams can pierce through this daydream, no siren can rip me from the flagellation of this gentle tempest.
It wraps my body in silk.

The rocks below me annihilate my skull immediately.
As my form meets the ground, rakish crimson stretches across the cavernous beige, and flows into placid blue.
Guts erupt from me like vomit.
My humours coat the cruise in a glistening array of abandoned cells, soon to live on in the stomachs of the awaiting sea birds.
They will carry my legacy up to the heavens, their screeches my own, bolstering the stars for my vindication.
My viscid remains shine boldly back at those indignant novae, challenging their authority.
My bones, taken by surprise, generously clothe the coast with their melody of splinters and wet cracks.

My life will be rain in the eyes of god.

The egregious heresy of free will will be the only thing to save my soul. And when the show concludes, and I am finally stolen from Earth, I want my life to end in applause and glory. Gory.

...

I am haunted by some infinite opposing force, which is cowardly, and nameless.
I will mock it until my suffering is carried away on the wind, carried back to the stars I defy.
It shall scent the air along with the spit from my thundering mouth and be swallowed by the clouds.

And I am them. And that is eternity.