Death, for Which I am Grateful

I feel no air rushing through my rotten lungs

Nor blood through my collapsed veins

I am but a corpse wandering through this life.

Everywhere I walk the grass wilts beneath my feet as if I am the embodiment of winter

People avert their gaze from my icy glare, praying to avoid frostbite

I am their fear of mortality.

People look me at me, rush by me, bump into me

They say "I hate you," "I'm sorry," "I'll help you"

I am but a wretched idea.

I have been alive for millenia

Yet it's assumed I'm a product of this new age but

I am all of human history.

Laws cannot constrain how people feel and

No corner of this earth is safe from my touch

I am everywhere and nowhere all at once.

More and more of my flesh flecks off with every step this stinking corpse must take

Finally I've dragged myself to an unmarked grave that has been dug for me by everyone who thinks they have a right to enforce their hate

I am death.

For which,

I am grateful.