Musica

I heard death.

I heard how the voices, screeching mixed in one, blood pouring, as I could barely move, my muscles tensing.

My mouth dry.

The silence wrecking, but the notes coming, more death as the sound became more vivid.

We feared birth.

We feared to be awaken in something that was heaven.

Darkness, eternal fucking darkness, full of what was bliss was torture how the eyes would be glued and we would stare into the true essence of life itself, that the logic was thrown away.

I was nine and I heard its screech, how it came, lulling me into an abyss. How I had feared it as it drew near.

It paralyzed me as I had seen it then.

What was awaiting the eternal kiss of death, the depth of its sleeve which we’d see going longer and longer as our head would way awaiting the final cut to pour our love out, the illusion of self-disgust showing us naked in front of the mirror, laughing at us, invisible.

I cried when I heard it.

I heard the dead sing, resembling violins, faking an orchestra with its beauty as the clock would stop, the breathing would cease and death would hunger.

Its starvation drown over me as a cloud as the screeches would leak, draining the floor, laughing, laughing, 

laughing

laughing. 

Boredom