The Book of the Dead.

⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡
(If death is a deliverance, than life is a sacrifice.)

I am weight down by my own shadow as shapes encase my eyes, I am both formless and broken at the same time,
my dreams look like deserts and
my pain is like a fish out of water.

I cannot make myself stay alive;
it would be like asking the sky to fall or the birds to swim,
it would be like asking the children not to laugh
or the mothers not to cry when they lose them.

Impossible the idea; that parents will outlive their children.
Impossible the idea; that my thoughts will outlive me.

And I can look for the days that I will laugh or sing; but I tell you truly I am still looking for them.

Impossible the idea; that my life will be anything more than this;
time spent looking out the window to the places I will never see,
and to a world that I will never be apart of again.


"Let the day perish wherein I was born and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived".
Job chapter 3 verses 3.

⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡