Death, they pronounced, at most came once. Never to go back and not ever to rise up. Yet I in life died – in plenty – and have lost count, amidst the death of recurrence. No advocate of death am I, never was. Nor do I find an artistic allure in it. Even so, take this from a man who’s died alot It is not a thing to petrify but embrace. I have come across loads of mortals and never have I seen one, with a heart, undying. Some of them, comes back to life, but not the most. They stay gone, veiled, from death. The eternal sleep is deception, like the others. As some perish prior to their slumber, heart-broken And some stop living with a rope or a river Yet they all had a heart that died – infinitely.