A dying man has a shifting form. He tries to commute his wails through a form people could understand. He grips at the clothes of the healthy, begging for some change even though his wealth is immense. A way to escape but though he stands in the center of the square he means no more then any other poor man. Past recollection hoping to flash and get attention only add to the white noise of a man passing. He must be remembered. He must be because the only way to defeat death is to have a bigger name.  The black star is what they will take away not the fact that death appeared on that day. He is only shifting planes. He will stretch out into the future through the echos of his name. 

Walking through the snow dragging my feet to a place I never wanted to call home. It has been the place where you have wasted away. Where orange and black has never so completely represented horror. Opening the door expecting to see your skeletal form wedge to the black veil of a chair, but it is vacant. My heart drops fearing the worse. I knew it was coming but knowing and feeling isn't the same. My gut contracts and my knees refuse to fight gravity any more. How can I know by just staring at an empty space? But I know. My heart breaks and I curl in order to hold the fragments of my mind in place. I'm only sixteen and you're gone. No one is in the house. No one can catch me as I fall. The rest of the family has gone to take care of everything else. All they left me was a note in that chair. The one I hated to see or touch the one that was your living tomb. Meant to make you comfortable in death, a practice coffin if you will. I grip the note and read the words so haphazardly arrange. "She is finally at peace. We had to go to the hospital. Call as soon as you get home. Love you." Did you know a heart can drop twice in a day. That it can fall deeper then expected no matter how much you clutch at it. It will never return to where it was cause losing your mom that young sheers the cliffs it might have climbed back up in order to feel ok.