On death.

I’ve always thought Shakespeare understood death like few people has.

Death is a recurrent topic in my writings, it fascinates me. The way I see life, being aware of death makes us seize the day (I may be wrong).
In any case, what a great invention!
This is something I wrote about it, for it, to it, because of it…

“There comes a time when death needs no description.

(Am I being followed?)
This night so cold.
I can feel my bones.

Dear William,

You had such clarity when speaking death.
Death as wrath.
A cloudless sky.
Death as a word.
Spoken at the exact time.
Never right.
Always measured.
Awaited.
Understood.

Death as an echo.
Loud and clear.
Voiceless.
Speechless.
A silent night.

We will all die!

Our days are counted.
We live as if blindfolded by an imaginary everlastingness.

Death.

Death is here.
Its bony hand on my knee.
On yours.
Death is near.
Silent.
Cautious.
Aware of its own density.
Thin-air like.
Cold and shallow.
A metallic taste in ones tongue.
Death is lonely.
Solitary.
Death is close.
Cold like a cave with no entrance.
No exit. No return.
Death is hissing, whispering in our distracted ears.

Listen.

Its broad mouth opening, swallowing tomorrows and our discolored beliefs.”