Death by misconception

Death, being absolute truth, makes it perfect theme for songs. If I were to edit most songs on death we listen to today, I’ll begin with the candle flames dancing freakily to the rhythm created by wafts of air from the Grim Reaper’s busted lungs.

The lyrics would mention the Grim Reaper’s shadow partly buried in hardening tallow. But his eyes are lunar orbs staring lustily at the wick of life, slowly devoured by the flame of age, of weariness, of disintegration.

He doesn’t shock me because I’ve seen him frequenting this place, loitering around here, sashaying with the smell of death, teasing prospects with his shimmering scythe. And though he has a hood, this hasn’t successfully concealed that sarcastic grin stuck like slime at the side of his mouth. He is taunting, mocking: “Of what good have all your worldly struggles done you? You all fall on bent knees before me, subdued.”

I’ll bombard verses with man’s follies – draining brains to accomplish big things from the fusion and fission of atoms and strengthening of space tourism to stem cell research and the regeneration of species. With the diabolic tone of a heckler, I would ask him why the same energy exerted in the unlocking of quarks cannot even formulate an elixir for immortality. And how come that even if humanity is promised “to die is gain” or that we would have our serving of that Great Rapture as we drool over the idea of peace found only in eternal rest, here we are holding on to the last knot of dear life?

If we could only touch death first before it engulfs us, maybe then we would be okay. And it is easier for us to hie off sans the backpack of our cares.

And then at refrain, I would shout out: But what are we here for? Much of what we see are the hype, the dazzling, titillating, hypnotic, disorientating threads of materialism unraveling before our naked eyes, and then woven to clothe us with the promises of bogus comfort. This form of subtle seduction makes it hard for us to accept we are but cinders in space.

Better to shudder at the sight of the Grim Reaper brandishing the blade of his scythe, sending our blood curling at his guttural cry. See death by the sickle a shameful but the best way to fade away.

And on coda, I would write the best epitaph there is: Todos los muertos!