Surrounded by Death

There was no need to get so close, I am well aware
Of how short time is and how closer I get -every day- to the grave
That there is no escape and how god is holding this loaded gun to my head
Teasing me with thoughts of futile eternity and imagine heaven
But I just imagine devils and demons and the fucked up existential crisis that boils down to
Hating what I have, that’s backwards ain’t it? Shouldn’t I treasure and enjoy
These fading moments; not concern myself with the thousand imagined commandments
That I be breaking and feeling obligated to say sorry without sincerity -what’s the point?
Not like I’ll live to regret it or expect it, forgiveness, not like fire and condemnation
No, Death, I am well aware of your presence, like an inescapable fetish, compulsion of bodies to die
And imagine a resurrection to a better place where magic makes everything better
Perhaps I am too cynical for heaven, but if so, why can’t I be too cynical for death?

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