The Saviour of the Infinite is Death
The immortal tears out her brittle hair in anguish.
Not a single passing tongue expresses sympathy; compassion floods no eye.
A vessel once pure and whole becomes shattered with the suffering of a million mortals.
Upon the hunched shoulders is anchored the agonizing weight of human tragedies.
Amnesia would be a saint; oblivion, an angel; death, a god.
Déjà vu – With a mocking laugh it flings her into events already lived. Redundancy, redundancy – taunting, burning, flashing; the memories – melting, spinning, dancing; vivid, violent hallucinations that mimic rapid eye movement, the silken state in which the temporary beings dream. But these dreams are nightmarish orbs of hell, taking the form of dense tar-like sludge, exuding, bursting from the cavity of her skull and melanising her flesh, organs and ancient, tattered soul.
She wishes for the sensation of falling away from life, the darkness a soothing universe of velvet. Nestled in the comforting folds of nothingness, her white skin adorned by saccharine silver chains, the heaviness pulling her gradually deeper into the marbled, honey-smooth oblivion that beckons from below.
She wishes for the sun’s streaming eyes to bear witness to her withered corpse; she wishes for poison ivy, nature’s glossy green chains, to constrict her weathered bones; locking, confining her to demise.
The saviour of the infinite is death.
