O, to awake; but not be breathing;
Yet, feel the air of the bitter winds blowing;
Touch its texture, feathery, fleeting;
Caught in the fearsome flight of its wings.
O, to smell; but with scents taken away;
Only whiffs of dull stones, lifeless and gray.
For flowers are dead, though they bloomed yesterday.
Replaced by the stench of dreary decay.
O, to hear; but hear mere sounds of nothing;
In a distance, perhaps, the winds whispering.
They are but echoes, far flung and fading;
The sinister silence, so silent and seething.
O, to see; but in darkness, alone;
Only sight of skulls, cold flesh and bare bones.
Laid across a thousand tombstones;
All carved with one name – the one name, my own.
O, to travel this road of death and despair;
To taste the pithy prelude to Nightmare;
How beautiful this life has seemed in compare.
How beautiful this life, unaware and uncared.
O, to awake; and be out of that door,
An experience, only a fool would ignore.
O Life, I beg, beseech and implore;
Grant me the beauty of breath, once more.
O, to awake; but not be breathing.
And I shall breath