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The world shatters now,
Like a glass figurine knocked from its shelf.
The sound of doom, not a roar,
Nor a scream,
Neither be it an explosion.
Rather a whispering tinkle,
As the bonds of reality slowly slip apart.
And a murmured hush of air,
As that which holds us to life,
And all our self bounds,
Are slowly cut apart.
For death, and the unwinding of time,
Is not like death of war,
Nor is it like death of heart,
Neither be it like the death of tears,
Rather it be like a dream,
From which a maiden wakes from in peace.
Or, closer yet, to a sleep,
From whence you do not return.
The words of destruction as mortality has come to believe,
Are all of them harsh of nature.
And imply with their mere utterance,
A death of biblical proportions.
Where the sky burns in a golden flame,
And the mountains tumble like so many pieces of brick,
And the very waters boil, as in the way of blood,
And reality unravels like a silk cloth,
With one too many threads pulled from it.
And yet, this doom is in peace.
For this doom, is not a doom,
As it implies in itself absolution,
And destruction of negativity.
This end is a quite passing,
Like the last breath of a tired,
And wise elder.
Death does not need be negative,
Rather a beautiful next step in a life beyond the bounds of mortality…