I think of death and dying quite a lot.
See my naked body and it will reveal a roadmap,
Detailing the path to hell.
See my scars,
Trace them.
As though reading a sign in braille.
Read my pain and open your ears to my suffering.
My skeleton aches and begs inside of my flesh,
Pleading for release from imprisonment.
Pleading to return to its home,
Underneath layers,
Of dirt.
Of moss.
Of leaves.
Of snow.
Of memories long since past.
To be forgotten 6 feet underneath the boy hiding in the woods.
Hiding from reality with a joint between his middle and index fingers.
To be forgotten underneath expectations and shattered dreams of his parents.
I used to be afraid of death,
Hundreds of feet in the air of some ancient stairwell in the Vatican City.
The very act of being afraid requires effort,
The likes of which I can no longer muster.
I am not afraid of death,
For in death there is knowledge.
Knowledge which only the dead can access.
Knowledge will save my soul,
From the dark waves of fear,
Chasing at my heels.
Archangelic Vision 