death crawls into and out of the ears of a conscious mind that never stopped thinking. from a young age it followed the boy until the day he became a man and beat him back into infancy. for every birthday it seemed like the agony of lost companionship and blood became a sort of present, reminding him that he was closer, and that one day death would feel it’s way into his soul as well. the worst thought he ever pondered was that of the after; the time in which something else might live to see a life without the constant, brutal, aching pain of the ever-so-infinite nagging of death’s fingertips. it was almost as if the thought of dying was easier, less painful, because all of his life he never knew hope, although he never was a stranger to it either. but he gave up one day. and he did die. and that’s it. no one knows, or had known, or will know what was to happen to him after that. he just died. and people dressed in black and cried, and said a prayer or two for his colorless tumor he once had called his own flesh. but he… he lived after that, in a sense. he’d come to realize in his final moments that death would always be there, knocking on the door, tall, thin, and deceitfully handsome, beckoning for the second he turned the knob. so that he did. and only then would he ever know that life is the only true death-that everything was backwards. he’d always hated death, despised it for it’s selfishness and the way it inflicted pain on everything it touched. but only then when the last gasp of air drew from his lungs, did he know that death.. death is the only escape from life.
i’d have roots that claw their way upwards instead, out of the earth, if i were a tree.
because this kind of feeling needs the sun on its face.
and it’s so strong, it starts to feel so right.
but this feeling’s so wrong, it’s beginning to feel so natural after all.
i have woodpeckers instead…