The Burden, the Bride

Buzz, buzz,
Buzz, buzz,

A fly hovers around with no place to go,
Its wings annoying to the senses...

Only the senses are dulled by the uselessness they create...

It flies for minutes  by and by and by,
With no real place to go,
Only it has no going to go,
For when the go is going, the going defines the go,
Therefore.... It Goes...
But the fly flies no less,

After a minute of such menial triviality,
Such that mundanity has an almost banal level of incredulity,
The surface of smooth-like wood greets its appendages,

Of course, the sight would seem normal, and maybe even cute,
Had the actual surface itself, not been….
Itself…

But why?
Simple…
The surface, the smooth, top surface, of a skull,
A skull, attached to that of a festering corpse…
A corpse…

A corpse, as typical as corpse can be,
With the typical features,
What with the filthied bones covered in the body it once supported,
Its flesh a sickening hue of yellows,
Its flesh a putrid cacophony of greens,
And parts of the flesh, caked in an orchestrally foul layer of excrement and dirt,
What red and pink indicated the body's existence,
Remained around the head,
Where a sea of maggots, and caterpillars, and moths, and beetles,
All of which were bred, inseminated, dormed, and hatched from said body,
Creating a wave of nightmarish ghoulish apparel,

Though many of these insects covered the body,
More occupied the face, than anywhere else,
Because, as the Olde Books said,
The sweetest of flesh only resides within the Temple of Thought,
But, as it were,
The maggots and moths and beetles, were more centered over one place,
One place in peculiar, and most peculiar indeed….

The mouth,
The mouth,
Wherein lies a secret,
A secret within lies a truth,
Within which, lies a revelation…

The corpse…
The corpse…
The corpse…

Is still… alive…

Hollowed out sockets hold faded, leathery eyes,
Covered in insects and parasites,
Each one of the millions of organisms,
Slither and slime, dig and drill,
And worm their way deeper into the core…

And yet the corpse is still alive…

A beating heart,
Filled with scarabs, slowing digging their mandibles into the soft fleshy tissue,
Continues to pump brownish, dark red, tarry blood,
Piplets and larvae swim with the blood cells,
And the while, the body is still alive,
Still breathing…

And the insects block the only means of truth,
And the insects block the only means of escape,
And the insects block the only means of peace…

The corpse is living, dying, rotting away…
And the time for release is long overdue…
But will the corpse open its mouth?
Will the corpse seek the peace it fought so long to keep?
Will the corpse finally put itself to rest?
Will the corpse believe in its own salvation?

Or…
Have trillenia of living within this state,
Seemingly degraded the reality it tries to maintain,
Its hope has become nothing more than an elaborate dream?
Has its truth, no longer become the truth it seeks?

Although it knows its the truth, and the insects know its the truth,
Does the truth of its existence, truly exist as it exists within its existence?
Or has the call of a new existence, or a new revelation to the truth of its existence,
Created a new realization, that simply are too simple to believe?

There is no answer to answer the corpse,
Because it has no mouth to ask the question,
But the yearning for life beyond itself,
Which keeps it alive in itself and alive inside itself,
But the hope….
The hope of the realization of the truth,
The hope of the release of the burden,
The hope of the sense of disquiet,
This is what clings the corpse to life,
And keeps it heart beating,
And its blood flowing,
And its life pulling,

But if the corpse cannot hear the truth…
How can the Word of God penetrate into the core of existence,
And peer into the soul,
And electrify it?