I ask of it nothing.
No Godly residency.
No fiery torments nor sensual pleasures.
No yearnings nor needs.
Only the peace of absolute nothingness.
How glorious then death to forsake the continuation, the damnation of want and suffering.
To feel nothing, to know nothing.
Having only eternal nonexistence, leaving to rot a waning memory in the wake of a floundered life.
Might you find Death’s welcome a twisted longing?
Still, It remains.
Perhaps in shadows unspoken, but foreboding.
Then to ease the menace, men fantasize some fantastic infinity that bears only a feeble assurance.
The insurance of those frightened by death.
And yet, Death is undaunted.
How can it be, that all our knowledge, all our love, our hate, all we’ve built, all we’ve destroyed, all vanished for eternity?
But therein lay the serenity.
Death will serve us well.
And I ask of it, nothing.