The Garden of Immortals

As I walk through the shadows in the valley of death, this darkness no longer scares me. I am unstimulated by the darkness. I remain unperturbed by the lurking fiends. I wander on aimlessly. It is as if I remain on the verge. Just on the verge, needing to sustain equilibrium in my mind. I look around me in the pale darkness. The earth stained by the light of the moon. I seem to notice this for a moment then drift back into my mind. Returning into this place glazed with paranoia. There is nothing here but despair. Concentrating on the void.

Once the voices erupt they pick at the mind as a vulture would at the rotting brain of a carcass. I persist and put one foot before the other and walk a head. The mist engulfing all of my essence. Tragedy streaming down my face as I suppress the river of thought from flooding my mind.

The trees here have no leaves. The ground is murky and damp. The air cool and the wind steady. It is despairingly serene in the garden of immortals. The garden doesn’t wait, the garden doesn’t care. As I press on through the clammy soil. Fighting the thoughts in my mind. My eyes are cold and unassuming. Deeply embedded in them sadness and doubt. The soil here breeds dead leaves and weeds. My mind lusts for faded memories. A lying mind concealing the fate of others.

For a moment I pause and gaze up at the leafless tress. I am the gardens noxious insertion into its inertia. I am the tainted little daisy in its splendor of desertion. Its limerence for me. It has devoured me. I am its petite mort. The garden desires to prove its unwavering immortality.

If you wander through the mists in the alleys and through the corridor of the mind at the bottom of a flight of cobblestone stairs and if and only if you dare. The darkness in the well awaits. If you jump that is where you will find the garden that never dies. The garden that never lives. The land of stoic.

There I shall be waiting for your decadence to elate me. There you shall be free from the condition we all suffer from so detrimentally. A warning before you do for when you slit the wrist of torment, blood will be splattered over you. The garden of blood. I of bone and you of sin.