And only through death do some experience joy,
A freedom that was to them but alien -before-
But is now within their grasp.

They stand above the planes of morality and human cognition,
Like apostles sent from an ethereal world;
To shine light upon the darkest of human fears-
Of his own death;
Of the cessation of his conscience-
The conscience created for, and filled into-
His shell; His person; His Life.

But even a man of general prudence can tell,
That life goes on, from here to the next.
Why then must he worry-
This man of conscious breeding;
With long accolades to adorn his name,
Yet none to keep him free of pain.

Why then must he be a skeptic to the longevity of the soul;
This man of form and stature,
Rational, yet naïve by nature.
Alone in this great space;
Yet unwilling to let it phase.
Why is he afraid, to let go of himself,
To worry about the lonesome, and fear the palisades.