Six Feet Deep
The gloom, the despair, the anguish of existence. Oh how woeful be my life, my ever fading soul. The darkness will consume as I be but a frayed wick upon its last flame before I am snuffed. Oh how dreadful this be.
This miserable undertaking of life, doomed, doomed, doomed we are! As doomed as the ant is in the grasp of a child.
Be that life? A child with naive and destructive intent? Innocence mixed with desolation of those beneath it? There is no escape from our fate. We surely all end as does the bright colors painted upon our once youthful faces.
I can hear it already, the wind of death howling over the jagged cliffs, sweeping through the pitch of woods. Cresting over the rolling hills like an army marching with triumph. I can feel it, its cold hands wrapping around my frail neck.
My breaths forming to the bitter air about me. I can see deaths eyes glowing from the shadows of my thoughts. How terrible, how frightful, I shake upon the soles of my shoes as if standing nude to winter. What fear it be, what a chilling sight to be hold.
The end, the end, its blankness warping the very vision of my eyes. How destructive this be, these haunting lullaby thoughts. How they cling so well to the fear of the heart. Like leeches to blood, they drink and drink never satisfied till they burst. Biting with fierceness, griping with no sense of gluttony.
How gruesome it all be. Given breath only to have it taken away. No granted limit, only the risk to step with faith. To give hope that there will be a tomorrow. That the sun will not erupt from its molecular state and burn us from where we stand. Becoming ash upon what we loved so much.
What ill fate we have, what undeniably insufferable fate we have been given. Upon what twisted game are we pawns of? Were we always undesired for immortality? Have our consent of sins left us all to the suffering of mortality? Is it our tempered emotions that lead us blind into things that destroy, that rip us apart from the heavens?
How dare we be such vile creatures when blessed with such breath. But what are we given in return? What labors are we to bare that give us meaning, that gives of happiness? Or are we entertainment till all unfolds and the universe is explained? Only to laugh at ourselves for ever trying.
What be all this, these bones, this voice, these words I write? Are they not but realities built from a formation of hopeful understanding? What poetic words will ever explain it, what faith be believed for us to have purpose among our heart?
We all are ill-fated to the soils of earth. Yet many prance with miserable hate, with disgust of everything. Understandable yes. But what comes of such view, such animosity? Why do some sprout with smiles while others insist on living in the sewage of pain?
Even I am often lost to agony but seek reason for joy. For in all I write, the miserable, the good, the damned, the happy. Is the realizing of thought, constructing my existence to have, to find, and be of purpose.
For if I shall end in a grave as all others. Become silent as that as of any other shall be. A corpse to rot beneath the stones and bugs of earth, then why create any more suffering than there already is? Why not strive to create an experience to die for?
To build a garden to enjoy, so that maybe, maybe all these horrific hells of life have meaning in the end. For what better times do I have, do you have, than those enveloped in laughter and chance?
How do you view life?
We can take our hearts to the skies or we can take it to the gates of hell, A Man's Traveled Heart
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