Who is pounding at my door?

Who is pounding at my door? Is it not the grim reaper wanting to make a demolition of me? With each tick of the clock the pounding gets louder and louder. I can hear my heart beating in my ears letting me know that the swing of the blade grows ever so nearby. Certified for annihilation the destruction knows my face. The coldness of the grave is a squashing tribute to a squandered existence. The soles of my feet are galloping headlong into nothingness. The wages of dim are catapulting in my head.

Who is calling out to me in the flickering light of the murky specter of life? Is it not the phantom of things to come and the fulfillment of deserved wrath? Darkness flees from itself as the drum rolls to no avail. The wind sweeps back and forth within the vacuum of a broken coil. The dead body does not care about regret. It is just a joke to it. It has been through so much pain and trouble, its feathers are messed up, stained, and snapped. It made a lot of mistakes along the way, but now It is free from it all, so it thinks. Investigate the nonsense and reconnoiter the foolishness. For the time is now to scrutinize the effective elements of why and why not.

Who is making fun of the cut and paste when the canvas is obscure and vague? Is it not the hold in the wall that contains the peeping eye. The eye peering into the oblique that is saturated with chaotic, irrational recklessness. Pull the blanket over your head and hope for nothing. Dream fanciful dreams that disappear when you awaken. Try to fill the void of your nonentity with something from the vastness of zero, naught, and nothing. Color the room blue and paint it purple for all is nil to the spill in the anonymous cluster from within and throughout.

Who is inflicting me with this persistent buzzing in my head? A thousand mosquitoes singing in bewildering harmony. Low and subtle, so faint and disturbing is the chorus of the unrelenting fizzle. Hiss to you who populate the organic structure of the unhinged cadaver. Jeer with a murmuring noise that asks no questions nor gives any answers. The last log is placed on the burning fire of negative energies that calls itself person, individual, somebody, and the rest is left for the pit.

Place both hands around the neck of I just want to be happy and free and squeeze the I just want to be happy and free out of it. The mule is kicking the donkey in the head and the horse is sipping a cup of tea. Nothing makes any sense in this bewilderment. Everything makes sense in this confusion if you wish it to. Let those who know shut their mouths and let those who think they know shout aloud. For clarity is an antonym of clear and clear has become an eroded way of thinking.

Let whoever is pounding at my door go away, even if it is the reaper of grim. I have placed my life in the frying pan of bad choices and decisions and burnt it with enormous heat. Who or what else can do more damage to me than what I have? And who will care what my tomorrow brings? The sickle is posed to strike, and the illusion of life will soon be wiped out, and what does that matter one way or another?