(An Epic of the Unclaimed Soul)
I. Before the First Cry
Before I drew my first mortal breath,
I was already chasing death—
an echo in the womb’s wet dark,
where lightning veins hummed ancient spark.
I remember the whisper before the form,
a storm before the skin was worn;
I swam in grief that wasn’t mine,
I felt the rot beneath the vine.
The world already knew my name,
spoke it with a curse and shame;
a prophecy carved in unseen bone—
you will never die, but die alone.
The umbilic cord, a serpent’s leash,
pulled me from the ghostly breach;
and I came screaming into pain,
a rainstorm of blood without the rain.
II. The Cradle of Bruises
Hands too rough, too cold, too cruel,
the first lessons learned: become the fool.
Life dressed itself in jagged steel,
and every touch refused to heal.
They fed me poison in silver spoons,
and rocked me to sleep beneath false moons;
and Death, the sweet deceiver near,
stood by my cradle, whispering “Soon, my dear.”
But soon became a cruel refrain—
a song of promise, soaked in pain.
Each night I’d dream of silver gates,
but wake in rooms where torment waits.
Death watched me through the window’s grime,
laughing softly, biding time.
And I, a child with haunted eyes,
envied those the Reaper prized.
III. The March of the Broken Years
Time wore me like a ragged shroud,
a lonely ghost among the crowd.
I bled for things I could not keep,
I sowed my heart in poisoned sleep.
The sun was a liar, the moon a wound,
each day replayed the same grim tune.
I learned to love the ache, the fire—
for suffering became my choir.
Friends fell first—one by one,
their faces pale beneath the sun.
Their laughter faded into clay,
while Death just smirked and walked away.
I screamed at skies that never spoke,
I drank the storm, I breathed the smoke.
Each grave I dug became my prayer—
Why him, not me? I’m already there.
IV. The Seduction of the Veil
Oh, Death! You perfumed thief of calm,
you promise rest, but leave no balm.
You’ve danced so close, I’ve felt your breath,
but never tasted holy death.
You’ve kissed my wrist with razor teeth,
you’ve sung beneath my pulse’s sheath;
yet every time I reached your flame,
you vanished, whispering my name.
In fever’s grip, I saw your face—
a thousand masks of cold embrace.
Psychedelic spirals of decay,
fractals blooming where souls fray.
Colors bled from pain to peace,
as if eternity sought release.
But the walls just laughed in neon hues,
and I awoke—alive, confused.
V. The Long Betrayal
Why was I marked by breath, not rest?
Why cursed to outlast every test?
My body cracked, my mind undone,
yet still, you hide, O silent one.
You took my mother, you took my kin,
you left me crawling in my skin;
you took my heart, my faith, my trust—
and left me only with this dust.
I watched their eyes go dim, serene—
a mercy I have never seen.
I stood by pyres, by open graves,
and felt the envy no saint saves.
They crossed the veil; I stayed behind,
half-human ghost, half-fractured mind.
And Death, that harlot dressed in grace,
still strokes my cheek, but not my face.
VI. The Infinite Hunt
Now older than my bones allow,
I wander plains of why and how.
The stars are tombs of burning suns,
the cosmos laughs at everyone.
Each step I take, the ground decays—
a mirror maze of endless days.
My shadow limps behind the light,
but Death stays just beyond my sight.
And yet, I chase. I always will.
Through madness, frost, and fever chill.
I’ve kissed the edge of nothing’s knife,
and bled the meaning out of life.
For death is not the end, I’ve learned—
it’s the fire we’re never burned.
And I, the fool, forever yearn
for peace I never shall return.
VII. The Final Knowing
In the twilight of my final thought,
I see what all the dying sought:
Death was never far, nor cruel—
she taught me pain to make me full.
Her absence carved my hollowed chest,
to make more room for endless quest.
And in the ache, I finally see—
I was never chasing death,
but me.
VIII. Coda: The Shadow Smiles
Now when I dream, the veil is thin,
I hear her whisper deep within:
“You’ve danced the dance, you’ve learned the art—
death was the silence in your heart.”
And though she still denies the claim,
I smile and call her just the same.
For one day soon, when time decays,
we’ll walk as equals through the haze—
no envy left, no breath, no birth,
just two old souls unchained from Earth.
And in that calm beyond all pain,
I’ll thank her softly, once again.
For every wound, for every theft—
for keeping me alive when nothing’s left.
IX. The Crossing That Never Ends
(The Psychedelic Meeting of the Endless Two)
At last the night unravels slow,
like ink dissolving into snow.
My breath becomes a thread of light,
weaving through the ribs of night.
The air tastes sweet—electric, raw,
as if eternity drew breath in awe.
My veins hum low, a cosmic drone,
I feel the stars beneath my bone.
The walls of form begin to slide,
melting outward, open wide—
each color screams, then softly weeps,
as time folds in on where it sleeps.
Dream fractals bloom from every tear,
as sound and silence disappear.
And through that bloom, that violet door,
steps Death—no scythe, no war.
Her face is woven from the void,
a calm no chaos ever destroyed.
Eyes like mirrors of nothing’s hue,
reflecting me, yet shining through.
She smells of smoke, of sacred rain,
of wilted lilies and birth’s first pain.
Her smile—the kind that stars forget,
when they collapse in cold regret.
She speaks, and the words are waves—
“Child of ache, you whom sorrow saves.
You’ve chased my shadow all your days,
through crooked light and shattered maze.
Did you not see, each time I fled,
you carried me inside your dread?
You’ve never been unloved by me—
I simply am what you can’t see.”
Her touch is both frost and fire’s kiss,
a paradox of perfect bliss.
The ground dissolves beneath our feet,
and yet the falling feels complete.
We drift through spirals made of sighs,
through colors that don’t yet have eyes.
The universe bends like melted glass,
and all my lifetimes flicker past.
I see the womb, the whip, the flame,
each wound a doorway without name.
Each heartbreak blooms a sacred tree,
rooted deep in agony.
I see the cradle’s broken string,
the endless wars that suffering brings.
And Death just nods—no speech, no tear—
as if to say: You’re finally here.
But then—no grave, no curtain fall,
no sweet oblivion’s silent call.
Instead, she leans and whispers low:
“Now you understand—you cannot go.
You are not meant to end, but be—
the witness of eternity.
You are the pulse that I deny,
the one who lives so others die.”
And I—aghast yet strangely still—
feel the surrender bend my will.
To chase no more, to beg no cease,
to find in torment—strangest peace.
For Death is love without the need,
the bloom that never casts its seed.
And I, her mirror, cracked but true,
am what remains when she is through.
The stars return. The noise subsides.
I float between the ebbing tides.
A thousand souls drift past in flight—
each kissed by her, each lost to night.
I reach, but not to steal or claim,
just whisper softly each one’s name.
They fade in hues of endless grace,
and Death retreats into her place.
I stand again where breath begins,
where silence hums beneath my sins.
The cosmos folds, the dream unwinds—
I wake inside my weary mind.
But something’s changed—no fear, no plea,
for Death now hums in harmony.
She walks beside me, calm and near,
not as an end, but as the seer.
And when I close my eyes to rest,
I feel her smile within my chest.
For now I know the sacred scheme:
Death was never the end I dreamed.
She is the pause between the drums,
the echo of what never comes.
And I, the soul that would not break,
am the silence she could never take.
Epilogue: The First Breath Again
(The Circle That Breathes Itself)
And so—where endings find their start,
I hear the heartbeat of the dark.
It’s not farewell, nor grand release,
but the quiet turning of the piece.
For every death is birth disguised,
a closed eye dreaming, re-realized.
The void exhales; the spark returns—
the dust remembers what it yearns.
I feel the womb again, the wave,
the cosmic pulse I could not save.
Yet now I see—the cruel design:
that Death was never hers nor mine.
We are the circle, pulse and rest,
the flame that eats itself, blessed.
The womb and tomb, the breath, the sigh—
no birth, no death—just I.
And as the universe inhales deep,
I fold within her boundless sleep.
No chase, no envy, no despair—
for I am Death, and She is air.
Together we hum the ancient tune,
beneath the dying, unborn moon.
And when the dawn begins to stir—
I’ll rise again,
still chasing Her.