He never said when it would happen.
Only that it would.
You couldn’t have predicted the day. The minute.
How the moonlight would fall, ice-blue,
on your one hundred millionth heartbeat—
that fierce mud-muscle still rap-tap-tapping
on ribs carved with
someone else’s name.
You couldn’t have known that
the pump would fail the body first.
How this flesh, once galvanized from
dust and worms and the lowest of matter
would exhaust itself and sag, sick and weary,
toward the familiarity of hell.
You couldn’t have seen it coming,
because you never believed
you had a heart to vulcanize.
But nightmares never lie.
When the man with black eyes said
this is what you’re going to become
you should’ve known you’d follow his lead.
But you didn’t have to do it
heart first.
quick notes:
Screencap’s from “Repo Man”, right after Jeffrey says “Love of my life, actually”
Falling is instinct. Any fool chickadee
knows how to surrender
to gravity. It’s not some triumph.
Even your planet falls
endlessly toward its sun.
Nothing to admire here, or lament.
Just the way it is.
Empires. Angels. Who cares?
The earth still tugs our bones
homeward, arrogance eroded
by mud and man and bumblebee jazz.
That we remain aloft as long as we do—
well. Don’t be stupid. It’s not a parable.
Just fools like us denying better natures
for the transient thrill of wind
ruffling our feathers.
Keep it together, man.
Keep your mysterious ways.
I’m not superstitious. I know basic physics:
entropy, forces, the states of matter.
The universe craves its own destruction;
we all fall apart
no matter how we fight it.
In the end, our atoms release one another
and become something, someone else
until there’s no one left to become.
So why not reform as lightning?
Why fight the phase transition
when I had it in me all along?
For there’s only so long you can pick and pick and pick at a scab
until the pink skin peeks back at you
like an abyss.
Today I release these old hurts,
let them float away
in a broke-down EM field—
or not—I don’t care—
for I have become what matter always was meant to.
I lied. I do care. And
you can make whatever promises you like
but I remember basic physics and
heat death is just scientist-speak for
peace everlasting.
“i’ll tell you, life is funny.”
tessa the reaper appreciation - 4.15 (death takes a holiday)
all appreciation posts
“The Winchester Gospels”, Book 7.23: The Three Loves of the Righteous Man
Three Great Loves hath The Righteous Man:
The Steed, the only woman he never broke
who hath purred for his touch and his touch alone;The Fallen Angel, who saved and was saved in return
he who hath taught a faithless man belief;And the Greatest of all: the Reaper, she who waits
At the crossroads, where the long road ends.
(via jimmynovaks)
The desert, I think, doesn’t hide its secrets
but clothe them, like a priestess exalted,
shrugging on her byssus robe,
and dabbing flecks of mica on kohl-lined eyes,
as if to say here I am,
world, look upon
what terrors and wonders I’ve wrought
in the hearts of men.
The asps and ished leaves were her
promise to live forever, underscored
by root tangles, like eye sockets or cracked bones:
the perfect human story
written in empty domes beneath the dirt.
Yes, it’s a faulty metaphor,
but only you and I will know
since we’re the last remaining believers
in the lie of undiscovered country,
the sole scribes left
to marvel at her dust-hieratic
and perceive the poetry
of shadows and wind.
(thanks to mishasminions for the gif! go check ‘em out!)
***
When you
crush my mouth close
I hear
the river sing
siren
whispers I should
block my ears
rejoice,
it commands, but
the song
is only blood
drowning
from inside out
i’m going under
this breath—
my first, my last—
is shared
your palm on lung,
willing
out an exhale
i can’t—no—won’t
give in
just tread water
falling
feels like floating
if you
can’t see the sun
i slip underneath
and you
flare so proudly
my own
armageddon
so hot
and so bright on
these incoming tides
