through the eyes of the dead

have you ever taken time to lay down on a field of grass to just watch the night sky? A nice cold breeze grazing your exposed skin.

the thick gray mixed clouds slowly going over the moon shielding it from your eyes every once in a while, the stars shining, forever burning.

every child used to want to visit space, but did we ever actually take the time to actually stop and admire the planet we already inhabbit? Take in the beauty that was under our noses all our lives, ignored because we dubbed ourselves too busy.

as I slowly turn my head to the side, my vision is filled by long blades of grass, one of which is blessed by a small crickets presence, playing its music, its tone matched with other crickets within the field, like a harmony, I wonder if they plan their sounds or if perhaps they all wait for the first cricket to began the symphony.

As I watch the little fellow play, he is eventually crushed under a boot of a dark silhoutte, His boots are dirty but I pay no mind, looking back up to the blissful sky, admiring how the border of trees around the field build what I can only call a frame around the beautiful painting-like view of the moon.

the sound of crickets now being accompanied by the sound of steps and moving dirt, a wicked lullaby.

taking a shallow breath as I admire the sight, a beautiful white barn owl fly's across the moon, a mouse in its claws, a tragic but fitting sight to hold, a true example of the cycle of nature. Everything gets hunted, all animals have a beast that hunts them, even we humans, it's just that instead of having an animal that hunts us, we hunt our own kind, wondering different ways we could hunt and lure the weak.

The morbid fascination of how they will react when caught, the thrill of thier struggles, the never-ending silence that comes after, the guilt that eats at the hunter, or the lack thereof.

Almost every time we fragile beings fall into their claws, misjudging their fascination for companionship, they outstretched hand not to hold your hand but instead your neck, a tight grip as their silouhette casts a shadow over you in a field of grass, too strong to fight against as your breaths become rare like a Musgravite gemstone.

The moon hiding behind clouds in what I can only call a cowardly attempt to not witness the sins it shines a light on.

Time begins to stand still, the owl forever flying, the moon forever a coward, and my eyes never getting tired of the framed sky. the sound of crickets and moving dirt is gone, I don't feel a gentle breeze on me or see the break of dawn as I rest in the field of grass that now has morning condensation beginning to form, I'm sure my breath would be like fog due to the cold crisp morning air.

The silhouette seeming almost kind as it tucks me into a blanket of dirt within the field of grass, his beast's hunger satisfied with its hunt of the night, its morbid fascination only growing stronger as the dirt begins to fill my glassed eyes.

The hiding moon and doomed mouse in its killer's claws were the last things I saw, now they would forever be the things I see through my dead eyes.

So this leads me to question you, will you be the hunter or will you be the prey.

And what will be your last thing you see through the eyes of the dead.