The meaning of death.

He knocks on the hollow floor three times, without a reply, thinking, if this is the way it is, i would just assume to die. To be ignored disturbs more than mockery, at least then someone is listing. The aggression becomes to much to control till it boils over and burns victims. A new moon hangs it’s shadow like a murderer or rapist rapping it claws into a delusional skull. He is swiss cheese passing threw the midnight breeze, holy. The pious feed only on humble pie. The starving eye’s search for entertainment to waste more time in their abandonment. Nothing is saved from saviors, the weight beats down on their beatitude. The mood tonight is two parts port wine cut with one third holy water, it seems smother that way. He writes prayers in matchbooks, lights one and then the whole pack. Pitch black, as his last hope chars surrounded by sulfur. The answer is found when fish drown and don’t bother to save themselves. A somber sullen grace takes over his face but you could never tell unless you knew how he fell and kept on falling. Everything now matches the midnight and the ambient white noise is drown in the dark.

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~ by Aumbeche Rishi on January 27, 2007.

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