Sublimation

A poem about our misconceptions of death.

Sublimation

Death is but idea,
A misrepresentation,
To which we wander, feebly crawl,
Or give way to;
Here materially perceived as a destination-
A gated garden paradise.

Or worse yet,
Personified as the primordial harvester,
Hooded and brandishing a sickle,
Who we give sway to;
Severing all life from its source: as if this can be.

Both are merely products of a futile and furtive imagination 
Busily seeking an end; a rest,
Or a reparation
For a life lived in fearful separation.