Sacred Constant
(I saw him once, before I returned to the breathing.
He was not cruel. Just precise.)
❦
Death
0824.2009
On a hilltop without dawn,
Death waits.
He calls breath to heel
on high-ridged horizons,
makes it easy to go—
like God, but without mercy.
He severs the vein
from the heart of being,
leaves husks in marble halls,
empty porticos
where irises might have bloomed—
but did not.
As summer sours,
he feeds the ground
his pale harvest—
a holocaust of nature,
indiscriminate:
Jew, Arab, mother, beast.
He fattens the round earth
on sin and virtue alike.
No right or wrong
unravels his decree.
No cabinet, no ministry
refuses his exodus.
He touches the lips
that reach for a final note—
and silences the aria
before it begins.
His hand, extended—
not noble, not cruel—
only cold.
A quiet offering
to the unrested,
the restless,
the ones who clung
too tightly
to their own survival.
Do you beg him
for solace,
for meaning,
for reason?
No.
Death is an architect:
precise, impassive—
a master of form
who distracts us
with our own longing
while he completes
his final design.
m.c.f.
AI rendered ⁙ Photoshop altered ⁙ Eros undone ⁙ Dust remembered ⁙ His final design ⁙ Not for sale
Concept rendering • Inspired by my ongoing exploration of symbolic duality in traditional oil and lens.
