The narcissistic necrophile kills himself
and the wind mocks the silence of the still
and the rain replaces tears of those he loved.
And in the end he’s alive again
and in a crowd he suffers
becoming envious of those stillborn.
The beginning of the circle reaches him again
and he looks out from the bridge.
High above the cemeteries
tries to burrow into loneliness
but grows winged feet.
He cannot jump and has no hands
his punishment is life
in Heaven where the crowds of the dead
And the wind dies. And he loves it. And falls.
His wings no longer work.
And the rain dies. And he disintegrates. No longer hidden by the clear drops.
He falls to the ocean no longer one with the sky.
And the corpses stir in their graves
at his presence in their depths
and they seize him
and he drowns
and his body is found alone
at the top of a mountain in the clouds.
He looks at God, who shakes his head. And an avalanche ensues. An avalanche of bodies. And he falls further and further away from them. The dying bodies. He watches them die. And loves them.
Yet he lives. And because of this, will hate himself.
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