A ceremony of departure ensues.
The third eye awakens, the god of muse.
Faces appear in the water and the night sky.
They beg to decipher the meaning of goodbye.
The mouth of torment has no teeth,
yet it devours all that can breathe.
Death brings a dark treat and a gift of curse.
A smile visits the god’s face, blissfully perverse.
I’m sure I’m not living, I’m slowly dying. I came to life when I was born and then the imminent process of death commenced, beyond my comprehension of medical science, of magic potions, of healthy diets and breathing air that is 21 percent of oxygen, I have come to sense that I’m not living, I’m merely surviving and nearing death. Living is a term given to slow death to avoid any panics or uproars in humans. We are simply dying, slowly but surely and living in the disguise of death, how intriguing and horrifying that is, isn’t it?