It is a strange thing what we consider living
For how can mortality be considered a life
We are vessels
Trapped in a callous crypt of flesh and sinew
Encased since birth in our sweet shrouds of false salvation
We are granted short solace from the abyss
Though the void is peace it is nothing of substance
It beckons softly
Promising to caress all those scars away
The longing, the pain, the rue, the memories
Those memories torment me still
The void seduces
It tempts
It ensnares
It is a spider
A fox
A deceiver
But there is honesty in its promises
In that endless slumber
We are the ones who lie to ourselves to make everything feel better
And so we become the deceivers
We think we are as infinite as stars
As perpetual as the darkness
Until that darkness lulls us back to its womb
But in these bodies we are momentary
A fleeting crescendo
It is never long before our songs fade to a dull silence
And bones become our grave
We permeate into the earth
Entwining with dirt
Becoming a feast for crows
Was it worth it
How curious that our bodies used to hum with sweet vitality
But you knew it was only temporary after all
Only souls are immortal but our flesh has always been a tomb
But when darkness engulfs
We are endless
Boundless from time
And with that liberation we can never truly die
