death. the only truly universal experience. every day, we take a step closer to the other side, whether we're ready for it, or not. theories and beliefs aplenty, so many a comfort to our minds astray. but it doesn't matter who you are, where you're from or what you believe, because we all bid the same question; a chorus of fearful whispering to the unknown:

when we die, where do we go?

truthfully, no one knows. we can hope, pray, invest ourselves in a life after life, but the rules of the universe don't obey the cries of man. for at the end of our timeline, all that may lie are empty promises; a void of the darkest oblivion.

simply gone, we will be. our bodies, decomposing six feet under, lying within the moist earth, forever. an infinite lacuna of where we once breathed, we dreamed, we laughed. an empty eternity in a place that doesn't even know we existed. far greater than humankind, the cosmos won't end as we do. Earth will continue to turn, nebulas will continue to shine, even after the last of our own is greeted by the grim reaper. time is endless, depthless, just as so the constellations. a foreverness of nihility, and we will be no more.

as the stars explode and the planets crumble in a stunning flash of violent light, the galaxies will silence; a whole multitude of once life will cease. the universe, attending to a peaceful darkness as it encompasses the heavens with its blanket of death, will hide the skeleton of our existence in an eternity of merely what once was, not was is, or will ever be.

where do we go when we die?

the query bears no simplicity, as the answer to life's greatest mysteries lies as its own ruination.

tears of gold, but a heart of ice, lucent stars illuminate her wicked eyes. a precious soul, a vexatious present to her roses, encompassed in fine, black paper. for she carries a green snake, coiled around her neck and red horns have sprouted from her scalp. she bleeds cries from the Gods, a siphon of Aphrodite’s disposition.

an easy task, she is not. with a will stronger than the sun and independence vaster than the moon, she moves to the beat of her own drum. she takes pleasure in walking the tightrope of life, for, one day, she will all but dance into the blackened arms of a Grim Reaper.

- - - - - - - -

“a vexatious present to her roses” - refers to metaphor ‘love is a rose’.

Today, the sky was blue.

A cerulean blue,

Like the veins on his skin,

These twain illuminated by rays of golden sunshine.

Here, hands of the woodland stand intertwined,

Amongst the overgrown weeds and white daisies.

He had come about here before.

Most vivid amongst the memories of his,

Was a place all so familiar.

Except a single crow had cried,

Searing said memory stone,

As sorrow took his heart by its sore grip.

That day, the sky was blue, besides.

However immersed in the lone crows’ cry,

The colour of the sky,

Does not adhere to the solitary wishes of man.

It does not care for woe,

Nor does it, love.

Today had been that day.

Vaster was the universe than he,

Vaster was the endless sky than he,

Still, he was vaster than any cry of a crow.

For seeds of hope he holds,

Close to his pained heart.

And now, the blue sky melts.

Golden sunshine casts to the sky,

Liquifying,

As a violet blush seeps through the clouds.

And he sits amongst the whittled trees and wildflowers,

Sowing faith amongst the drowning cries of his crow.

Tomorrow, the sky may be blue.

Or, perhaps, it will induce greying clouds,

Tumble rain over his dark complexion,

Rumble the shouts of the Gods,

But he will not deter,

As all seeds must drink from the rain.

"love yourself."

hollow words, still, plastered everywhere;

anywhere, allowing such an empty promise,

embedded in the impossible, always.

the word itself was a source of irritation.

love.

its inkling went ungrasped,

void of meaning and merely a word.

by fifteen,

she knew all its nuances.

all its shades of deception,

never once a plausible reality.

"just love yourself."

just.

oh, how her blood boiled.

please, I'm trying, was her unvaried cry.

with her hope, steadily ebbing,

for love wasn't an option anymore,

it was tired and warn,

as the answer laid at the basal of her virtue.

don't love.

just be kind.

oh.

oh.

"be kind to yourself."

kindness.

the goodness in her heart,

was an abstraction she could acknowledge.

before long, timid tendrils of hope,

encompassed a bruised conscience,

as she gave a gentle nod to her mirrored reflection,

as she appreciated her own jokes.

eventually, the sun shone warmer.

her smile, ever so illuminant,

her laugh oozed golden honey,

her eyes were lucent constellations.

"be kind to yourself."

for it was her own kindness,

her purity and her patience,

that was her saviour.

perhaps this was love, after all.