Viva La Vida (Death and all his friends)

The owl was calling my name in the distance, and as my feet tore through the dirt in the ground, my eyes lay transfixed on hers; hollow and white and lifeless. In them, death seemed to be my friend, and this graveyard, my home. The dull greenish nature of gangrene mist was my envelop of comfort, and I lay low, because I no longer had the feet to rise. She dwarfed my existence, and I faded back into the familiar terrain of obscurity.

All around, strongholds of pearly bones disintegrated into powdery dust with the chilly wind, and bastions of evil and intimidation fell to the earth. A shadow of the mad scientist with frizzled hair casted itself, as the woman in black stood solemnly in the distance. They were both influential people in my life, but unlike Dante, they would not live, or die, to see paradise.

Limbo.

There was a threshold, and a bridge made of cobbled stone, and a bell that no longer rang, and rusted under the acidity of the air. Soiled strings of linen patterned the undercover, a reminisce of a time that used to be and now only existed in the memory of a dying man. And memory is not matter, is not history, is not in existence, and therefore, cannot attain immortality.

A wolf howls, and the hounds are at my feet. They come not to take me, but to lament and anguish their plight. In the full moon, they are at their nexus of supernaturalness, and yet paradoxically, a calm state of naturalness accompanies the predominance of the night.

At my time of dying, there is nobody to watch me die. And perhaps, that is the greatest love of all.