The dead loll in their behemothic sleep
Deep in the mouth of darkness
Pale limbs white against the marble stones
These bluish, bloated corpses
Lying, waiting -
For what?
For the angels of death who would
Wipe away the putrid fluid in their
Ascend to the Divine Garden?
Is death a concourse of mind - the
Darkest recess of consciousness
Or just a capacious stretch of endlessness?
- I don't know;
I haven't died before.
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