Death is Dead

Oh, death.
I dare you to bring your sting!
But you can’t,
and that’s why we sing:

Death will hold no power.

Death – you’re a snake with no venom,
a feline lacking your claws.
You will strike everyone, but you can’t kill us all.
Jesus lives, His love greater than death.
We give Him praise,
long after our final breath.

With triumphal music we swoon and swing,
“Jesus is King, not this petty death thing.”

Who Will Save me From This Body That Is Subject To Death?

Sonorous nonsense driven home with gestures
which bifurcate the conferential notion of reality.
Demarcating experience into a disingenuous echo of truth –
where is the line?
Do we draw it ourselves?

Everything I know,
and everything I hold dear
is a self-induced narcotic
that structures my life
into a complex that helps me to sleep at night.
(Except not really.)

I am not a son.
I am not a student.
I am not an employee.
I am not culture –

I am not a structured existential coping methodology.

I am not you –
I am not me.
I am
a being which is destined for death.

What else is there?