Slow Death

Life. 

It all starts with life. 

Let me tell you this: Birth. 

You were born. 

You, me, that guy in the

Corner in his designer $uit &

The cheap whore with him. 

For this you can blame your

Fecund folks. The moment

You were born, Death entered

With your first hue and cry. 

Claws in place. 

Patient. 

Lurking. 

You may be taught to believe

That you walk in sunshine, chin

Up, back straight, and anything's

Possible if you try. 

Lies. 

All lies. 

The whole world

Lies and chiefly to itself, 

Attempting to maintain

This illusion called

Life. 

Death's dread umbra covers you

Always, that invisible darkness is

The only truly living entity

Around. 

Just wait. 

And see. 

Meanwhile, Dad, idiot grin in

Place; Mom holds precious babe

Up to display their happy

Congress' product, not

Seeing that her arms uphold a

Casing of fetid flesh, worms, 

A cloud of bones and dust. 

Precious. 

Doomed. 

And the zombie parade dances on, 

Dancing and fucking, desperate

To beat off the hungry shadow by

Sheer force of numbers, 

Abetted by religion and 

Self-delusion. 

Yeah, right...