There is beauty in death, i think.
Not in the vulgar machinations,
The swelling and suppuration,
The separation of flesh from life.
But in the quiet parts,
The slow exhale, the letting go,
The spiraling up of spirit,
Released from the dull, grey
Distorted thing we call living.
Nature knows this.
For all things that live
There is a beginning
And an inevitable ending.
The beauty of death,
Like a heavily drugged sleep,
Is that it separates us from care.
It smoothes out all the worry
That life etches into our bodies.
It lifts all the heaviness
That lays upon our tired hearts.
Death is indifferent to pain,
To loss, to grief, to longing.
Death is beautiful in its purity.