Today,
Death kissed my spirit with the back of its hand—
not as a thief, but as a storm.
It swallowed me whole,
dragged me through shadowed silence,
then spat me back into breath,
forcing me to walk the spiral again… and again.
It began in stillness—
smooth earth curling beneath our wheels,
like a serpent coiled in slumber.
Then,
a white chariot—small, ghostlike—halted without warning,
as if summoned by unseen forces.
I screamed to my beloved,
“STOP!”
The word was a spell—
cast sharp, urgent, laced with fear.
My heart became a drum,
each beat a desperate hymn to stay alive.
Tears flowed like sacred rivers
down the altar of my face.
They say your life flashes before your eyes—
not as a memory,
but as a reckoning.
And now I know:
time is not measured in hours or years,
but in the ten fingers
you throw up when grasping for the edge.
Even now—hours swallowed by the void—
the tears still come.
To others, it seems sudden, senseless.
But I know.
My heart is unraveling,
slowly mourning the soul that left
for only a moment
and returned with stories it cannot speak.
For Death—
that ancient, patient mystic—
slapped me in the face,
then offered me life
as a burden I must carry
once more.
The Writings of Felina Silver 
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