Death is inhumane.

Death is inhumane. 

By it's very nature. Slowly unfettering all ties. Loosening all controls. 

Like a lone thread hanging from a sweater sleeve, death pulls...quietly at night, in the moments between, at its own painful pace until there's nothing left but a swatch of fabric over your heart and a pile of string you just can't seem to untangle. The waiting is the hardest part. 

Sleep invades Wake's places on the clock. Wake mourns not knowing the day, the time. She wants breakfast after the kitchen is closed and the coffee switched off, how embarrassing. 

The Body could care less. Body is on its on schedule. Oblivious, it waits for no one. It shrivels like a sausage in a pan ignorant to the heat. Jerk.

What's left of You, or rather the essence of you, the you that doesn't seem to drive this body anymore, can't quite grasp the horror of it all. 'How is this even happening?', You questions in the night, or is it the morn?, dreams and bits of the afterlife quickly erased by the cold dark emptiness of the hospice space. 

No wonder babies cry. How incredibly frustrating to live this in reverse. A peaceful darkness so simple and free replaced by the seering, shocking, messy, painful, autonomy of incarnation. The Babe will figure it out, oh sweet dear one, your loved ones will help. They know of birth and life and will tie your shoe laces and place your hands on the controls. They'll hold the essence of You and your adorable little out-of-control body in constant love, no matter how loud, messy, smelly and fierce it gets. Lucky.

We know nothing of Death. We avert our eyes, shield our hearts, close the doors. Deny it hot coffee in the night and autonomy in the day. Lock it away. 

Poor Death. Poor sweet Death, Birth's forgotten little sister. We dress you in the dark threads of despair and celebrate after you leave the room. You're both inhumane, you know.