Musing on Death

16 Nov 2017

Jknifeman
In yore beales lay the hinds, naught for coin, but rich in binds, for God’s folk are as servants in bonds.

	Night may soon befall, those who are good to all, but God’s people, they do not bemoan the fall. 

	The world turn’d over is merciful, but guilt cannot be saved, for those robed in black shall burn in hell again.

	Worlds divide, worlds together the sins of the father come to haunt the son, the sun is black, the trees bleak, the men weak witted and dull.
	
	Plagues befall and waves of a horde enslave the people who are free, the free people are bound again.

	Unto ash ash is delivered and from it may once come fire, but fires fade and night creeps into steal sweet flowers into their demise.

	Black is the flag that speaks salvation at the hands of an idol, blacker yet the darkness they truly worship.

	Giant be the colossus that falls on the weak, it’s shockwave be high and mighty, but once again do not despair for they are saved.

	The sun grows dim, the clouds grey with ash, after a brief age of fire the age of man subsides.

	Men may rise above death, but they do not rise through it, as the coffin is inescapable and the dirt neverending. 

	The roads of a fallen empire, broken and crumbled lay in ruins as her cities, once ziggurats of silver lay crumbled memoirs of an age begone. 

	The sea churns on and the birds still race but man no longer builds his empires, the age of dark arrives.

	The age of empty plains and darkness at night overtakes the ruins, where the songs of birds so sweet, rouse the flowers from their sleep.

	The flowers spread their petals and grow, basking in the sunlit glory of an age after man, the madness of his short life gone.

	Where make believe faces and pin up pictures once stood tall, the flowers and trees stand taller.

	Where God remakes the world in his image again, when the sinfulness of man is gone.
	
	Fires rise from ash and consume all things, and fade to black, and ash is left grey and bleak so that trees may sprout and birds roost again.

	Woman sings for man and the birds sing for God, an everlasting song of joy, while down below the helpless suffer without end.

	But one may ask to what end is this? What will become of the world when the fire subsides and dark overrides the stoking of the fire?

	Not even God may know, because he has not decided it. 

	But in ages of fire and dark so opposed to one another, one must ask oneself, is this all? 

	Will there be something in between the fall? Will there be an age with ash and fire? And hot with dragon’s ire?

	Will there be an age when flowers wither and die and grow yet still? An undead zombie age from hell?

	Who goes asking but the foolest of fools? Questions that can’t be answered aren’t questions, they’re statements.

	And when the pines may sway and crack in some distant apocalypse, will the unanswered questions still persist as statements of fools? 

	Will man ever forsee his own demise and make plans to compromise? Will Martian men ever exist? Will man overstep his failures or is his quest for naught?

	Are the men who read the sky for the future right that we do not know? For even falsified astrology is but a pose which the being of the future strikes before changing again. 
	
	The wisdom of ten hundred thousand men isn’t enough to discern the past fully, so why should we seek the future?

	Man’s only answer is none, the only hope is for God to take pity upon his poor servants. 
	For apocalypse may be avoided and danced around, but one day the sun will die, and the trees and flowers wither and dry.

	Death comes to all in many forms, stillness, silence, lack of breath; Death is the beginning and end of all life.

	Death of good men and women feed the future and preserve the past, feed newborn children and remind them to pray.

	Plants die to feed the good men and women and their children, animals die to feed them too, death is only the continuation of life.

	Do not fear this death, the creator is merciful and kind, somber as these partings with those you love may be, it is just a phase.

	The somberness of death reminds us of the love of God, because each life and thing we touch and see, is God. 

	Though worlds and stars and galaxies may die, that is not the end, new stars and galaxies are born through their death.

	For every heart that is pierced with six thousand spears for every single time it is broken understands the longing for a love that lasts.

	But every love is fickle and each soon withers and fades, be it over a year or one hundred. 

	Love and life are temporary, death is permanent, but death is the birth of the next life.

	For every mother that watches her husband and sons die in war, watches new children grow up because of their sacrifices.

	The flags of this world are stained crimson with blood, but the flags of the next are white as light. 

	The world renews and regrows, but memory is permanent, as clear as a scar, as important as a heart.

	Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, everything fades, dies and watches new life arise and learn to walk from it’s grave.

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