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