Unnatural? Fabricated. Immature
To the face with stray marks left when sleeping, it is impossible to know that which covers it without a reflection of such.
Death; a part of life? Life; a part of death.
How little we seem to care.
Such a thing is treated as a flaw, an error in this which we live amongst.
Unbearable, to see a body lying there?
That stroll through the grave yard? Creepy?
This body, our skin, rightfully as much ours as the entire world we live amongst, within a galaxy of possibilities.
A lifetime covered, unseen.
Denying ourselves of our very own primitive conditions.
Striving to take away what makes us… real.
Or to feel, truly.
Nature won’t go away, there’s no need to eradicate such that we are a part of.
Such a fallacy, as trying to see a Him, as from Above.
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