The sky is black tonight. Stars are blotted and squashed among each other. There is no moon.
There is a black shadow. The aura. Black with splotches of passion. Red. It loosens one soul there. One there. Peacefully sleeping little babies who have done nothing except smile and cry. Venerable old men in eye-glasses still reading in the study. Youth in the prime of life.
Now they don't breathe. The blood has rushed to the head.
The world is upside down.
Someone has found out. Tears speck the soil, as Death claims another soul for his own.
*
This was more peaceful:
This one beckoned Death closer.
"Take me away," he whispered.
"Save me."
Then there was no breath. No blood.
*
Not all of them are like this.
There was one.
She was strong. She kicked and she screamed, and flailed her disintegrating arms. She made a desperate racket.
She bled her passion and drank her fear.
But without an apology to the pathetic plight, her soul was forcefully yanked. From the top.
Now, she was really out of mind.
As her soul entered one of Death's dark pockets, he saw into her mind.
It was golden. It was beautiful. It smelled of possible greatness.
But all was done. Over now. Game over.
*
I'll tell you. How does it feel, you ask. I'll tell you.
It's a long, black, slithering, slippery slide. You can't think. It's just memories. Of the time that has fluttered by, quietly as a butterfly. The thought process becomes increasingly languid.
The slide, its almost alive. Its judicial in the number of bumps you feel. They are just as many as you felt when you breathed.
Deeply.
Then you land.
Brace yourself when the time comes.
*
Death is cynical. Sceptical. Death is splendid. He scotches life. Dreams. Ambitions. But Death is also fallible. The paltry amount of fairness he possesses remains unused. He has taken utmost pleasure in every ray of the pallid light emitted my a dying soul. The sepulchral air he breathes in and out is riddles with the rattling breath of his captives.
*
Excuse me for the aloofness. Such is the calm he brought over me. Such is the placidity, straightforwardness I am blessed with. Or is it 'cursed with'?
I leave it to you to decide.
He cradles me snugly, sings me a lullaby. 'Eternal sleep', they say.
Me and my undead companions dream in peace.
Yes, we dream.
★
Death, I had awaited you.
There is a black shadow. The aura. Black with splotches of passion. Red. It loosens one soul there. One there. Peacefully sleeping little babies who have done nothing except smile and cry. Venerable old men in eye-glasses still reading in the study. Youth in the prime of life.
Now they don't breathe. The blood has rushed to the head.
The world is upside down.
Someone has found out. Tears speck the soil, as Death claims another soul for his own.
*
This was more peaceful:
This one beckoned Death closer.
"Take me away," he whispered.
"Save me."
Then there was no breath. No blood.
*
Not all of them are like this.
There was one.
She was strong. She kicked and she screamed, and flailed her disintegrating arms. She made a desperate racket.
She bled her passion and drank her fear.
But without an apology to the pathetic plight, her soul was forcefully yanked. From the top.
Now, she was really out of mind.
As her soul entered one of Death's dark pockets, he saw into her mind.
It was golden. It was beautiful. It smelled of possible greatness.
But all was done. Over now. Game over.
*
I'll tell you. How does it feel, you ask. I'll tell you.
It's a long, black, slithering, slippery slide. You can't think. It's just memories. Of the time that has fluttered by, quietly as a butterfly. The thought process becomes increasingly languid.
The slide, its almost alive. Its judicial in the number of bumps you feel. They are just as many as you felt when you breathed.
Deeply.
Then you land.
Brace yourself when the time comes.
*
Death is cynical. Sceptical. Death is splendid. He scotches life. Dreams. Ambitions. But Death is also fallible. The paltry amount of fairness he possesses remains unused. He has taken utmost pleasure in every ray of the pallid light emitted my a dying soul. The sepulchral air he breathes in and out is riddles with the rattling breath of his captives.
*
Excuse me for the aloofness. Such is the calm he brought over me. Such is the placidity, straightforwardness I am blessed with. Or is it 'cursed with'?
I leave it to you to decide.
He cradles me snugly, sings me a lullaby. 'Eternal sleep', they say.
Me and my undead companions dream in peace.
Yes, we dream.
★
Death, I had awaited you.
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