every day, ever wasted wish
every dawn, every dream kissed
cries to be heard, to be said
to stop the madness, cut the thread
ticks the dongs on the clock, ticks the tolls
every minute gone, every second goes
"Death answers to no man"
I can't wake up if facing it is all I have left
"but every man answers to Death."
Everything was covered. Coated in fine, white powder; subtley crushed chalk; undetected cocaine; powdered sugar. So dellicate, so beautiful, so addictive. As to be dangerous. The color and shading os a moth's winds smudged onto your finger. The purest off white you've ever known.
So dense. Sticking to the air like humiditiy itself, sufforcating. It was as if 16,139,000 moths just lost the right to fly. Their freedom, their independence, their life. As to be gone. It's more humane, right? Of course. That's how this society works. We kill.
We kill the humane, silent way. Nothing. No Thing. No, No One. No One thinks to screams. Mute as a moth. That's how this society lives. Thousands of our dead skin cells being rubbed off by some larger monster.
But we will be known. Scattered among the grass to be stepped upon, among the clouds to be caught by drifting wings, and clumbed together in rivers to sail rough ocean storms. There is strength in movement. And there is strength in silence.
Pairs of shoes will tread through these, our stories and remains and memories, and carry them mile upon mile until someone notices. All the screamless deaths and decaying injustice. You may make up with the subtle ashy burnings of homemade cigerettes, but do not think we are so naive and flimsy.
As to not notice? It is our death, after all, our soul, out skin, our stories, our lives. Our demise. And we notice. We may be bound to death but that doesn't make us any less caustious of it. We tend to keep track of when we die.
We notice the soft white falling flakes of powder. How could we not? So dense. Suffocating the air with beads of frozen life hung by strings. The purest off white you've ever known. And we notice the purity, the stories, the art. It's art in death. Breathing life. Breathing the moments in Picaso's mind too ellaborate to capture. We notice.
**Note: The first intro part is not part of the origional material. I was just kind of playing around as a tester of writing this out. But I figured, why not throw it in there? Please do keep in mind, all this material is rough. I'm not putting out a finished product here, just something I sletched up.