There is a beauty to Death.
It’s tight grasp on what’s left of life billowing in the bittersweet breath of death, awaiting its invite. A buried voice humming through the tiny cracks leading its merry way to one’s heart, with its haunting shift in tunes provoking a former longing. It has a way of reeling you into its obscure frigid embrace by unveiling its warm and charming smile, offering comfort that was long-ago feared but now so desperately sought.
Why would one dare turn away?
For some, it might have felt like a shot in the dark. The sudden whiff of nothingness and utter foreboding completely devours one’s consciousness. How peculiar it is to find serenity in the eternal disappearance of what once was, but one question remains; does the past ever leave the place it so homely resided in to confide all that it used to feel and dream?
How does a soul encounter such a foul milieu of a being?
No matter what a soul could reside in. May it be a human, an animal, or a thing of nature. But let us focus on the latter: A flower. What starts as a small innocent seed awaiting a new form of life for it to bloom into, depending on the caretaker that provides its needs. A home. With such healthy soil and enough room for the little seed to grow, a caretaker that surveils upon its condition so often that it is almost as if they both start to breathe the same air. Then comes the part where the seed develops to sprout a part of itself crucial to what the caretaker must attend to with the graceful flow of water and the careful exposure to sunshine. Albeit this is where the beautiful process comes into play where growth not only comes from above the soil, but even beneath its damp soil to allow it a solid foundation to begin an even more awe-full becoming. After having observed the growth atop and below where the budding seed resides, a fluorescence begins bearing a new beginning for the seed. A flower, it becomes, one ready for pollination where its beauty is shared to another alike, nurturing what life there is for them to spare.
What has lived… must come to an end.
After what once was a blossom-filled life, why must it come to a bittersweet end? What once was mustn’t come to an end. Begging. Gracing into nothing but dust with no more of what I can befit. What used to be a lovely aromatic flower.
Perishing. Slowly. Steadily.
Letting go of vigorous days and weeks is what time has become. Bits and pieces, but advancing, what color filled beauty of petals oh so gracefully falls to the ground. The pain in sight of the stems accord slightly tilts down, showing its neighbors in cells and organs that the time has come. There are pieces that have yet to cross the line of death, but time is no one’s friend. Once more, a buried voice humming through the tiny cracks leading its way to one’s heart, with its haunting shift in tunes provoking a former longing.
Wilting, and yet,
the soul never ends its travels and stories to fulfill another being’s sublime potential.