Stages of Death

“Their trip back progressed quietly mostly and was rather quite uneventful until they came upon the scene of an accident that blocked the entire road, so they had to stop.

“Kengua had strolled over to the crash spot to have a closer look. He wished he hadn’t. There was a victim lying on the unpaved roadside being attended to by a number of over-enthusiastic people. These untrained first responders just kept fumbling with the man as he laid flat on his back on the dusty ground, face up and breathing unevenly heavy.

“He was foaming profusely in the mouth, with the dark part of his eyes sneaking upwards, into his upper eyelids, as if he was trying to see something overhead without trying to arc his neck backwards to look up.

“Soon his hands left his sides and started lifting upwards slightly, then falling back into place swiftly, with only his elbows bending at each time. Within the second minute, the victims legs joined in, his shoeless bare feet stabbed away from his body in a continuous stretching motion.

“Kengua was transfixed, too scared to keep looking but yet he kept his eyes on the obviously dying man, as if watching the poor chap death was an act of charity.

“Later on Kengua remembered thinking that maybe if the mans legs had found something vertically stationary to rest on, the agonized departing spirit of the dying man just might not leave when it did. Maybe it is because he didn’t strike at anything with his leg activity that his departure from the realm of the living was completed. Maybe people wouldnt die at such moments if they stood up defiantly.

“Though Kengua wasn’t alone there, he sort of felt he was the only spectator who could actually claim to have seen the man die, but he doubts if he really did see him die. He only saw a pained man briefly struggling to live on endlessly and then the same man, against all his desire to live on, became quite still and motionless. He didn’t see life leave the man. If that was ever humanly possible, the privilege wasn’t granted him that warm humid afternoon.

“So Kengua strangely romanticized that gross occurrence by curtly summarizing that the brevity of death is like an orgasm. That is if what he saw is indeed the moment of dying, which is arguably death.

“They recommenced their rudely paused journey an hour later. Kengua made a comparative analysis in his mind on what he had just witnessed and what he read some living sage wrote to win the world over into believing and accepting his listed five stages of death. Kengua was now certain that the writer has not seen these stages exhibited.

“The five stages were made easy to remember by sequencing them to DEATH as an acronym, as;

Denial, Enraged, Appropriating, Tension and Healing.

Or more aptly:

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance.

Kengua saw none of those that afternoon as he watched the man kick the air to his death. The least of all to be exhibited is Acceptance.

“Death simply damned the mans Desires, nullified his Energy, shrugged off his Activity, Terminated his life and Held him eternally Hostage. Kengua concluded that for want of a more suitable break down of the DEATH acronym;

Desired Energized Activity Terminated and Held Hostage

….would be a whole lot more befitting.”

Reflections

In the quiet whisper behind two eyes Distant memories drift slowly by Shadows ply the illuminated space Nothing speaks like a dream in your face. Remembering on past the current time Thoughts they congeal into words passing by Memories they fly to the ethereal place A chance passing flows very fast through your mind Reflections […]

via Reflections —

Written by Jacob Ibrag There used to be a world that lived in my mind which I used to visit when I’d close my eyes. As the months gave birth to years, it became increasingly harder to remember how to get there. Upon the final day of my arrival, all that was left were tired trees […]

via Stranger — eyes + words

Life Is Not Everything — Bipolar by cola

Life is not everything, a shadow of me, exists out there somewhere in the sea. Breath is not everything, a slight tense, is making the waking dream come sense. Light is not everything, the new dark comes, for the lonely soul who think he has won. Dark is not everything, light burns the night away […]

via Life Is Not Everything — Bipolar by cola

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Some Days — HarsH ReaLiTy

Originally posted on Richard Rensberry, The Grumpy Poet: Some Days Some days are empty some days are full Some days are timid, some days are bold. Some days are broken some days unfold Some days are some days with no where to go. Some days are precious, some days grow old. Some days are happy,…

via Some Days — HarsH ReaLiTy

MUSHROOMS ARE CONCEITED

Recently I took a delightful walk into the wild.

The hidden sun illuminated smoky clouds

It was such a beautiful day and the hidden sun illuminated smoky clouds in the pale light blue sky. All the thick green high trees were in a humid shade. Not far into the rich moist vegetation I came across the biggest mushroom I have ever seen right in the center of the foot path i was walking on. It looked harmless enough and edible too, a promising prospect. But because I know second to nothing about mushrooms, I had no way of telling if it was indeed the poisonous kind. It had me thinking, I could be talking about people; couldn’t I?

Looks edible & trustworthy

The old borrow a lesson more old,
Taken from the depths of age itself.
Passed down with memories long told,
In spoken words or read off a shelf.

Plants are green or of the green,
Their roots bring in the nutrients.
Edible or not, monstrous or serene;
Fauna’s use of the greenery is strength.

Proud with blossoms loud in colour,
Conquering as weeds warring away;
Mighty giant canopies in sorrow,
Serving clean air as lively wood they lay.

It is the nature of all men to be;
Seek, achieve and demand credit.
In every act, subtle as it so be;
To identify glory and apportion merit.

Then the mushroom sprouts out,
Wet dew with and like its dawn;
For that short while it’s all about,
Like a lowly placed but lethal pawn.

Good or bad?

If humility is an attitude of the mind;
Humbly conditioned and selfless,
Then humiliation it doesn’t ever find;
Nor wallow away in any such sadness.

Sneaking simple acts of goodness,
The mushroom delights in subtle ways.
Beneath the canopies’ high mightiness,
Or humble in the low lawns it strays.

As yet its acts could be as noxious;
Quiet as they harmlessly look or seem,
A mushroom can harm and kill the conscious,
Like the humble act could be very mean.

But in a wanton quest for the simple
Mushrooms that true nature man persist;
Just as a ramification of egoism in people;
Humility is the worst form of conceit.