Death could be a beautiful thing.
Like petals of a flower.

In Autumn,
The leaves fall from trees,
In a cascade of colors.
Red like my blood.
Orange like my waiting petals.
Yellow like the sun, shining,
heating up bodies, decaying.

The smell isn’t like flowers though.
The smell is of rot.
Of death’s form.

Not true. Just another form.

Death is a mistress, a master of craft.
Of manipulations and hesitations,
Resulting in failed communications.
Of wanting to be apart of the crowd.
But not being able to speak so loud.

Of a flower, never blooming.
Silently swaying in the sure winds,
Blown by the tall mouths,
Of the reigning sun flowers, shining.
Heating up bodies, decaying.

I want to shine bright.
And not smell of rot.
But I see Death’s form.

Not the true form yet. Just another form.

Another teasing sight,
Circling my budded form,
Whispering to me, the truth.

Of hideousness.

Of how not everyone is a flower,
Or a cascade of colors.
Reality isn’t a beautiful thing, waiting for you to see it.
It’s an electric shock of a storm,
Blown by the tall mouths of truth.
The sure winds, having more than one source.

And the sunlight I see.
Is but a spotlight.
Shining on my budded form.

And I let the glare hit my eyes again.
And they blur.

It’s not blood, just the spotlight’s shine.
And Death is still a beautiful thing.

And the leaves fall in a cascade of colors.
Red like my blood.
Orange like my wilting petals.
Yellow like the lights, shining.
Heating up the bodies. Decaying.


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