To be born into a dynasty where life and death counted,
such lofty dreams and visions of grandeur, of death,
of principle and justice,
you too would glare at the stars and scorn the setting sun.
The weight of mortality rings true for us all.
But how deftly the bell tolls bears cruel correlation to the scorch of our electric life.
Burn all around you and it will count for something.
Touch too gently, break no hearts, take and give no life, leave no imprint, fade to dust,
that is the fate of those whose lives are but the steps on the path,
blindly laying down the way for the unforeseen.
No majesty for you. Or I.
In the age of reason, where God curtsy's to Faith,
Death becomes A Fact.
From arch nemesis to character actor to mime.
Death sits and drinks beers in the mocking sunshine.
Our hero and heroic plot line derails.
Heaven's wrath is but an electric storm charged with knowledge.
Our future is but decades ahead, our past counts in the billions.
When did we start living for our past.
Is bitter reason the cure of our fear.
Tonight, while we inflict ourselves with pain and pleasure,
and squirm and pretend we don't feel nothing no nothing at all.
While all those people, quiet, horrific people.
Gently breathing in the darkness.
Under the same stars.
Continue
unassuming in their contention- we count, and are counted, one as with all.
And when Death strikes it wont be from above, nor from below.
It will be cold hard and clinical,
horrific unjust and tragic.
It is a shame, so sad, and i don't know what to say.
It is no longer deserved.
Give me a deserved death, a death I earned.
That counts.
If life can count for something then so can death.
The culling of possibilities, down to who is left at the end of the party.
A sit down after a long day.
Walking away from the horreur of flesh and heat.
Those are exits.
But to fight against Death.
To stand and look out upon the glittering abyss.
Tranquil.
To raise up the storm and collide science and superstition,
fracturing the knowledge we cling to
and wreaking pure primitive human fear upon
your brow.
I hate these days where we count for nothing.
Our hands are idle and our brains numbed.
