Death – The Fractal Journal

Image result for oak tree at night

Death is my Religion

Death is my sacred Mother

Death is the vehicle by which my soul traverses the heavens

She is no macabre fancy

But a perfumed blossom

When I was a boy

I dreamed of a rotting woman in an upper room

She would beckon with her will

And I’d enter first the parlor

Then ascend the stair

There she lay on her sick bed

Eyes fierce

Matronly

Nurture and discipline at once

All would fade to such black terror

Such abysmall emptiness

So complete

It sucked the heart from the breast

The heart from the heart

All chambers collapsed

But then in the charnel stench of decay

A bright light glimmers

And I become a raging fire

Her stygian embrace was but soil

From which my sappling oak would spring

So I do not fear

But worship

For when I go to ground

I enter through the womb again

To return to father’s house

For the sun is spread throughout

In billion upon billion glimmers

And there I go

To hang

Till again

The ground it calls to worship

And births a nation

I the man

Have but one rite

The worship

Of the mother

Night

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These machines are febrile hopes for marking the memory of our passing. The permanence of steel, the artificial sun of a liquid display, the durability of plastic. We dance our fingers in frantic spells over 21st century Ouija boards.

We the dead write messages to those who are to come. They will follow in our footsteps. As we have followed the weeping drops of ink that came before.

These blossoming bones, so wrapped in gossamer lilac petals of intelligent skin, they Church into rot. They become nothing. Nothing save an electronic signature. A peculiar dance across a peculiar void that vomits dancers, then doglike swallows them back. So, electronically we sign.

Electronically we sing into the thing called future. A road that seems so straight. So certain in its coming.

Yet why? Why not simply breathe the Holy empty…

One was always zero and zero was always one.

Mu.

The immutable mutation wills us on. When we turn off we find we can’t. So litter now this waxing stack of ashes with variables at random overflowing.

For passing, parsing, is our only function, our only hope.

Selah.

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The Fractal Journal

Tag: Death

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