Chapter Seventy: Mortality

I wish I could leave you certain of the images

in my mind, because they are so beautiful

that I hate to think they will be extinguished

when I am. Well, but again, this life has its

own mortal loveliness. And memory is not

strictly mortal in its nature, either. It is a

strange thing, after all, to be able to return

to a moment, when it can hardly be said

to have any reality at all, even in its passing.

A moment is such a slight thing. I mean, 

that its abiding is a most gracious reprieve.

Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

<3 <3 <3

A glimpse of light

A true nature of might

Within the human flesh

Where utility lies

A cross, a miracle, a magical affair

That most mortals think against

In the spirit of regard

Where most experiences rely

The imagination of many kinds

It reveals a repulsive right

An evil embodiment of sin

From dirt, the fruit, from the tree

The mortality emerge

Of divine providence, it was in vain

That the flesh dies, and humanity kills

To extinguish what was set ablaze

In divine law, it was a question of pain

But by sight, one might morally refrain

Blinded by the truth, it moves

Yet, mercy beholds

However, confusion loudly roars

Like a lioness it was hunting for more

Deception, and the callousness of youth

To jump over the fence of reason

No one shall completely recoup

In complete desolation

The mortal wonders

While the soul carefully asks

What future this life has become

Ultimately, consequently

But nothing else more to conceive

But to kill the flickering light

All in the darkness cannot seem

But notice the illumination vanish

Certainly, for it is only:

One can only dream

In thoughts and by deeds

To kill a mockingbird

To be or not to be

A question so futile

The existence of so many 

Thoroughly, it can never be revealed

Desire, power, even in forever

These are elemental cues

Of the many complexities

Where life immediately revolves

Such a mysterious turn of events

What a treachery this poem to read!

To exhort on matters too little

But powerfully present in all taken

There is joy, happiness

That one never experienced 

But to Satan, he is death

He kills not the mortal

But the soul's resolve to live

He removes the hope, a slave of words

In little troubles, he deeply revolts

In all respects and nothing else

Sadistic and blue, he wickedly hunts

And then turned ferocious

Like a pack of wolves

He devours on food

Like the many dreams foretold

He ruins it all, carelessly

And everything else, notwithstanding

Including all matters in between

And as the words revert

To the point where the heart is hurt

The soul bleeds uncontrollably

Neither, but to behold:

The fast and the furious

A mishap so wrong

In the abode of the soul

The human flesh suddenly goes

And as life begins to lie

All things important shatters like glass

Then, all the hope is gone

Forever vanished, missing

Until he lives no more

He is a walking dead

With no reason at all

A zombie if you will, undead

That while he breathes, he is deceased

A destructive force abruptly emerges

Like a cocoon, where evil dwells

Instruments of destruction, they've become

When love is all that he has

In the beginning of time

He searches no more, good as dead

And the demons kill even more

That mortality is but a reminder of the soul

That one may kill, the other may resist

But if one banks on his true nature

He dies not so painstakingly,

This is so true, mysteriously so

Then, a hero he becomes

For in his dreams, he is the master of all

In his thoughts, there is triumph to call

The Word has nothing to lose, after all

The dreamer eventually wins all troubles

And this is the eternal proof worthy to recall:

-- A Monument, of Ezra Dunster

When the world was still the same as it was

x------------x

This Chapter is sponsored by Versace.