Death's Spook
Death opens its shade
like an umbrella casting
dryness amidst a deluge
-- an umbra over time,
burying history with its bones,
until one unearths it.
Whispered murmurings of
stories past, delved into with sharp sanity
that cuts through minds that fathom not.
The spectre's cryptograms are no secrets
to a Socratic, and frustrations churns
towards the ignorance of others
who cannot decrypt its lexicon.
They cannot look into the mirror
-- the reflection of worlds, fragments of the cosmos.
They do not see the threads of creation of an infinite arras.
They cannot wonder at the beauty of the rivers -- the undines.
Nor the wind whistling through the willows,
or the hidden caves of treasure.
Though shades alike, I know you
not personally by psyche nor soul,
but by a festive name card.
I hope, posterity bequeaths us chance
to partake in a toast with
Paracelsus' mythic elixir.
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