Afterdeath Poem by Cerulean Celyn

All of tomorrow
Feels, slightly, a lie
We never lived, I never lived...
Didn't I?
I passed in November
In a night with no sound
All resistance I built up
Was already down
There is no getting over,
Or getting use to,
Just abnormal beats to sound the way
To what you walk to.
All of today
Feels, faintly, a dream
All the faces blur together
Become incessant echoing.
I passed in November
To a realm with no sound
Where it reeks of genocide
And faded blood on the ground
There is no waking
Or passing on to something more
Just the agonizing acceptance
Of having died before.