The jester weeps for the dearly departed; rivers of ink stains his cheeks as he ferries us home for we look upon his face with terror; his hedious mask strikes fear into our hearts.

Prophet of Death

Once upon a time, at the threshold of birth; I think I told him that I look forward to the day we’ll meet again, old friend.. for we have walked this road many times before. Back then I looked upon his face and called him beautiful, his company gave me comfort for the impending journey into the unknown was more than I could bear.

Yet somehow along the way I must have forgotten my promise to him; I think I forgot my purpose for coming here. Is death as painful as birth, I wonder? I cannot recall the day I was born into the world, nor the pain I felt nor the cutting of the cord…

Could it be that I forgot what death means, like I forgot my reason for coming back?

And when I next look upon the face of Death; would I too, cringe in horror at his face that is made up of my own fear… or would I embrace an old friend who has come to accompany me on the long walk home?

To walk through coal on my own accord or be dragged kicking and screaming; where is dignity in death if there is no dignity in me? My prophets plague me with rambling thoughts of lunacy but I sense some riddled truth in it somewhere.
The beast was here all along…

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Diary of a Broken Soul
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