March of The Dead Birds

Men live on hope and fear, for forgiveness and eventual peace. Men live for loss and then salvation, accumulating long lost memories from a debris.

Men live to find the correct path in a labyrinth, a web work of rights and lefts and somehow decipher the right combination. Men live to find their demons, to fight them, make love to them, and then turn into one.

Endless hours behind us, constantly taunting, constantly slithering into our marrows and asking a million questions. The hours keep piling on, urging a lust for forgiveness for the crimes never committed, for a success unclear, for a love that will go unappreciated.

An asinine, mindless walk with iron shackles tattering and eroding against the solid ground. Attrition to consume our bindings, attrition to consume us all… sooner than we think, sooner than we hope… and then we shall smile… one last smile to end it all, a crooked smile feathered with frigid tears and gaping scars… and pull out that sorrow knifed in our hearts, pull it out like a dagger and paint our remains in a crimson celebration… a mournful serendipity…

I am no exception, I am not the enlightened chosen one, who will line his own path. I am as blind and emaciated as you. I chose to seek a different path, I chose to be vocal against the voices, I chose to hunt than scavenge… I chose to fly afar fighting the talons of the hours… but like Icarus I flew too close to the sun and then the wings melted. I fell headlong into an abyss, and in the darkness I lacerated my tongue, gashed my eyes and joined the march… with a smile… always with a smile…

A life of trepidation is what we all live nowadays, trepidation is our meat and mead. Fear alone shall make us run and fear alone shall carry us to our graves. As vulnerable as a whelps against a thunderous tempest, trepidation guides us all towards what? The light at the end of the tunnel is merely a headstone under a lantern with your name on it.

Such is the desire of God, and God himself shall rain fire and brimstone upon us, and cast great vengeance upon his unworthy blind mice.

“…Thrust in thy sickle and reap, for the time has come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the Earth is ripe…”

Time for forgiveness and strength has past, we are now where one shouldn’t regret, or hope to regress, or reproach our destined finale. Recall when ‘Death’ was the most ominous outcome, and now through our mendacity and mundaneness we have endless hours of the past, present and future carving extreme, excruciating ‘Nihility’ inside us… till that very moment when we shall begin to cherish ‘Death’… with a smile… always with a smile…

“… and there shall be no night, and no light of the sun, for the Lord giveths Light, and so shall he takeths…”

I predict no apocalypse, I am no soothsayer, I am as blind, deaf, mute and useless as you. I do not believe in an apocalypse… I see an apocalypse every day, every hour, every ticking second, gunshots in rhythm with a metronome, graves every two steps, epitaphs being murmured in remembrance.

What death shall the apocalypse bring to a horde of corpses?

What chaos can stir a heart maligned with rigor mortis?

What tears can these eyes shed, dried and full of sand?

For what are we but dead birds marching… to our marked graves… 

and fall tranquilly with a smile… always with a smile… 

and always in the right grave…
or we may have to march again…