poetry of death

[EdsbeGores]

The Paths of Final Freedom

There are dark paths, yet beautiful,
Where the soul is freed in silence, without a cry,
The rope drawn tight, a dance of words,
Where the end embraces the shadow of infinity.

Hanging, painful and solitary,
Gently tightens the throat, then peace,
Where the body hangs in the ether,
And the spirit finds its final secret.

Suffocation, a slow embrace of air,
Giving birth to dreams in suffocation's grip,
A heavy silence where time contracts,
Before oblivion, the gentle immersion.

Drowning, the sweet mother of deep waters,
Where the body floats, held by the ocean,
Waves caress like fleeting seconds,
Life drowns in a soothing silence.

There’s the blade that grazes the skin,
A cut, a final shiver,
Then peace, settling like an echo,
The forgetting of a world, of reason.

The warmth of fire rising slowly,
A gentle burn that consumes the soul,
A final breath that becomes soothing,
The body turns to ashes, without drama.

And then, there’s oblivion, the fleeting extinction,
Leaving no trace, no sound, no shape,
The soul fades like a fleeting flame,
Into eternity, far from the turmoil of the norm.

Each end is a different path, an art,
A way of being, a liberation,
Whether in air, water, or the dark,
Each possibility hides an illusion.

The beauty of death is not in its form,
But in its ability to free the soul,
To make of each end a vast breath,
An opening into the unknown, without drama.