I cannot die.  I will live forever and ever within this purlieu of apocryphal buoyancy, amongst this doltishness known as the human race, the very essence I rely on for my survival.  It is that same foolish optimism that they, themselves, rely on for their own continuity.  As well as the same idiocy that seems to sustain an assurance between two kinds, an agreement that only I seem to recognize.

Sonorously, I am the one who crossed the line which dichotomizes the co-dependents.  I am the one who entered the side of immortality.  Regardless of how or why my transformation occurred, I am still passed off as folklore, a myth not taken critically.  Or, at least that’s what they say.

As the ephemeral walk their dogs, they are certain not to pass a tomb yard for any probability that they might leap over a grave.  They will boil their arm off over the simplest paper cut before they leave it untreated, as if it were a gunshot wound. Keep in mind that these are the same people who hold the church sacred.  The same people who do nothing religiously, except their religion.  They abide by décor of crosses and rosaries.  They paint pictures and sculpt customs portraying “Jesus Christ conquers…” Yet they remain as the ones who find it so hard to believe that I am here.  Like so much debauchery and disdain cannot subsist.  As if their lives prove to be so much better or even prove to exist at all.

They continue to have no problem ensepulchering cadavers upside down, enclosed with sickles.  They consummate rituals of cutting tendons and ligaments so that no limb can move, as if it wasn’t already dead.  They will chop off the heads and place them underneath the corpse’s severed legs, as if it could function well enough to screw it back on.  To top themselves off, in front of the stone, they sprinkle seeds and sand or anything else that will leave the undead counting, picking up, and organizing through the night.

When I sink my teeth into the flesh, I see nothing but trepidation radiating from their bodies.  As death is on the horizon, how can anyone with such sanguine beliefs have so much consternation seep from their eyes?  Perhaps it is because they have put all their trust in an intangible sanctity and an unseen afterlife, and not in the true hell I put forth.  It is then that they discover that they will just ROT.   I will never, ever experience that pain.  For the rest of eternity, I will be the source for all misery and affliction.

But as long as people have faith, there will be opportunity. I will prolong my life at the hands of their amnesic blood and sweat, the fuel for my ravished flames, my only weapon on this battlefield of perpetual war.  And so long as the crops are burning, people will have reason to concede in their own life, for their own ways.