Death's Canvas
D.Moschetti
Many say that our souls are the canvas upon which life paints its
myriad textures and richly detailed patterns.
What then of the darkness?
Where does death's erratic stylus lay down its insane scribble?
If not the very soul itself, it certainly must have a medium.
For many centuries the skin of man has held the writings of a hellish madness.
Madness spawned of the ultimate reality.
Are the patterns any less intricate, less rich in their design?
Or are the pocks of death's deepest reason too obvious to be contrived?
Yes, death too composes its grandest symphony and weaves its ultimate tale for all to see and to behold.
We are all death's canvas -- its ultimate masterpiece.
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