history obliterates

imagine history in a paint-splattered apron, drawing up plans for the next decade. how does she get that vibrant red? perhaps she mixes crimson with a dash of purple [or maybe she pricks life's fingers and smears the blood into her timeline].

scrub-blue swathes of fabric wrap tearaway calendars and tie them with a bow. some say life is beautiful and i picture her dancing in meadows, foxgloves tucked behind her ear. however, i think i prefer death, lurking in the shadows, nature's equilizer. life draws out suffering, but death removes it with a merciful hand. i kiss my index finger and rub it against the doorframe, waiting. life hand-picks her privledged children and leaves the rest to play in the mud, while death sweeps them all up into her arms, caressing them before setting them free.

because death doesn't discriminate, but life sure does.