Breathing the breath of death.

4 Apr

You, my creator, you breathed life into my unhallowed soul,

My being was rotten from the core, yet you still formed me

But the breath you breathed, ’twas not the warmth of life,

‘Twas not the warm mirth of being, it was cold, and shallow

You breathed life into death, thus reawakened my cursed soul

Filthy, disgusting corpse set to rot by the workings of the worms,

I was, but you disturbed my soul’s last repose, its final consolation

Of gentle sleep and eternal surcease, of a cold and silent grave.

My eyes were cemented shut, they had long lost their sight,

Yet you pierced them with brightness and galvanized my limp,

Unbeating heart. I had long since forgotten how to move, I was

Stuck in my comfortable paralysis, but you electrified my limbs

And forced me to stand. Staggering, trying to remember the

Sensations of this world, at first they were too much for me

A dead and living creature. I felt the warmth, I felt the hardness,

But the feelings were not for me, for the dead do not feel what the

Living do. I struggled to remember why my soul was ripped out

Of its eternal rest, why my body was no longer buried unfeeling in

The conciliatory grave of peace and solitude. Who was my maker?

I wondered, unable to remember the human customs of long ago.

I was a recycled being, a failed experiment of an unhallowed art.

Trapped in between life and death, I could not feel, nor love, nor

Breathe. Oh, how I long to truly breathe, to fill my lungs with air

With a sense of flight and freedom, of exploration and fearlessness.

Thus cries my soul, a soul that even God cannot comfort or sanctify,

For sleep, comfort, consolation, peace, salvation, and holy sanctuary.

 

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