The poetry of a dead man [h.s]

The art of dying

There is beauty to be found everywhere if you look close enough. He always had an eye for it, ever since he was a child. His version of what is beautiful might not be the same as other peoples, but he considered it to be a gift nevertheless.

Right now, there is beauty to be found in the trees. The way the leaves are aflame in a quilt of colors, how the wind makes them shiver ever so slightly, just as his body does. There is beauty to be found in the grey clouds, the way they slowly eat away at the sun, how they start to consume any specs of light in the sky. There is beauty to be found in the slow vanishing of the beautiful symphony caused by the birds. There is beauty to be found in the small specs of red staining the ground beneath him, mixing with the already red and auburn leaves that he lays upon, creating the perfect color palate. There is beauty to be found in the faint buzzing sound of the flies that one after one seek out the hole under his ribs.

He always loved poetry. He was not good at writing it himself, so he had to find other ways to express his creative desires. In this moment he feels like he is becoming the poem himself. Death is a gift; it would be pitiful to let such an incredible gift go to waste by not making it beautiful.

The second most beautiful thing you can make of death is to return to nature. Humans take so much from her, letting the maggots and flies feast away on ones body is a way of giving back. It fills him with a sense of comfort, knowing that his body is doing something good, that it will do something good.

The trees, the clouds, the birds.

The blood seeping into the ground.

The flies.

It is beautiful is it not?

As he lays there, having art be created of him as the blood leaves his body in a steady stream, he cannot help but wonder where it started.

Did it start when he was a young boy? See his childhood could be described as rather complicated. His mother, whom he held very dear, disappeared when he was eleven years old, leaving his father to take care of him himself. His father being the sheriff in time meant many late-night fantasies as he was left alone in the house. He fantasized about books he read at school; he fantasized about stories his classmates would tell him.

Many of these nights his fantasies scared him. They scared him so badly that he was convinced he had creatures living in his house. He heard them at times, screaming behind the basement door, clawing at the walls. He once told his father about his concerns. His father, who would do anything to not make him feel like a fool, confirmed his concerns. He told him that a ghost lived in the basement, a ghost that would wish him harm. That scared little Harry even more, but his father assured him that if he stayed away from the basement, it would not be able to hurt him.

He always listened to his father, and therefore he did as he was told. He never went down there, he did not even go close to the door, except for one night. One night he could not sleep as the ghost in the basement was livelier than it had been any night before.

He slowly made his way down the stairs from his bedroom chamber, calling out his father's name but getting no answer. His father was nowhere to be found, and as the sounds from the basement kept on coming, he grew concerned. What if his father was down there with the ghost? What if it would hurt him?

As he put his hand on the handle to the basement door, he heard his father's voice in his head telling him to not go down there. Harry ignored the voice as he could not let the ghost hurt his father without even trying to save him.

He opened the door and slowly made his way down the stairs. The wood underneath his bare feet creaking with every step he took. A soft yellow glow was all he could see as he made his way down. His heart was in his throat, but he had to be brave for his father's sake. He made it to the source of the yellow glow and to his horror he was met with the sight of the ghost. Despite the ghost being chained to the wall in thick weather bitten chains his fear vanished as he was reminded of freshly baked cherry pies and warm tea.