death

Oh what comes to mind. When death gets us from behind. Buckets kicked; lights shined. Images you see? Apocalyptic? Blurry? White clouds like cloud 9? Pause. Rewind. What was The Before; before it came. What was past life like? Hopefully I’ll answer that question one day. Imagine death day. During the dog days? Winter? The seasonal blues? Least expected? Sure Wrong place wrong time. But why That variable. Colorful schema Of vibr’nt colors are they Bright? White? Out of Sight? In a word, no. The color contrast doesn’t make any sense, death is death, nothing more than that. It’s like mending broken things, there’s no sense to pick things right up subjecting to every fact. What can fathom the light that we see in our last fellow swoop, who knows quite even, let’s regroup: The color of the sky when it comes to death? Oh on the contrary that statement is too complex. We all have different eyesight’s, each one a specific set of lenses. Color blind or not, how we look at the different wear and tear of our eyes does not affect the denseness. It all matters on the setting that simply is the key. Tis this is my death, so I’ll leave it up to me. Deathbeds are overrated, all you see is hospital lights. It was a dark dark evening, and the grieving would be out of sight. Our future is grim, we don’t know what to expect. We could “live the lifestyles of the rich and the famous” or be in a mountain of debt. Picturing death to me is a night time occurrence, my mind couldn’t be out of ease. Pitch black with no insurance. It’s the future I picture it, a future it is. I will die respectfully, my life will be now as is. I’ll have nuclear war ruled out, because that would be absurd. The sky would be a stained smelly gruesome encounter of cadmium red all in sight. Now that is unheard. The sky would be normal like any other day. I’ll have no say to it. It’ll be the end of my day. I’ll just die of natural causes, old age would get me fast. Remember my last words, because that they’re my last.