The Breaking Open of the Demon's Skull

Death often stalks us
from the far reaches of the inner void
like a beak-licking, soul-swigging vulture
that circles an austral funereal pyre.

He waits for his time to pounce on us.
There is nothing but waiting in him.

The visage of Yama…the implacable
countenance of nothingness…all these conjured
images have a home in him.

In his brooding meditation on the fate of
flesh, therein lies the incorruptible truth
and ultimate weapon against ephemeral mortality.

It’s a poison beyond measure: Death’s word.
It’s a trick to some and a gift to others.
What else could it be but a bane and a key?

All of our occult desires, the desires which even hide
from the desirous parts within, seem to be based upon
chasing a demon for sport. We secretly long to capture
its jeering, odious head, crack it open like a delicate
husk, and feast on the howling maelstrom inside.

We secretly long to be the poacher of the night,
the hunter of nightmares, the wrangler of fears.
We long for courage this way.

In our brooding meditations on the fate of Death,
therein lies the incorruptible truth and the ultimate weapon
against a persistent and necessary illusion.