The Book of the Dead

 Death is not necessarily an old and withered book with dry pages.
It can be a thousand leaves of strong and shining text on a powerful body,
Held erect on the vertebrae of a strong spine.

The heart hardly breathes because quietus has been reached,
The torso is like a rock, the legs are rooted, the ink is dependable.
If the words of death should be considered faded and sere
- where could be the dignity in dying?

"I am old," said the book.
"I am older," said the body.
Cold creeps from the feet upwards.

Unlike water, paper does not freeze or condense into steam.
It does not boil

The book to end all books.
The final book.
After this, there is no more writing
No more publishing.
The publisher should retire.

The eyes grow weak, the light dims.
The eyes squint. They blink.

The world is prey to a failing of focus.
The ink grows fainter but the print grows larger.
In the end, the pages only whisper in deference.
Desire lessens.
Although dreams of love still linger,
The hopes of consummation grow less,
What could be the end of all these hopes and desires?
Here comes the end.

(The Pillow Book)