Death walked through the doors, a wisp of fresh air for some and the stench of Truth to others, no matter did she touch but the fleshy hand of the Other. Death watched the Other from behind, the Other wasn't wearing her special white coat that set her self a part from the most. She wore a simulacrum fabric the colour of soft lilac over her meaty back, shoulders, and arms, the fabric worn and pulled. The Other might have imagined the shiny simulacrum of a fabric would disguise her misuse of herself and her things, a medicine woman should know some things. Her legs spindly covered in stretchy black tights, her whole body covered and her whole body showing, at the same time. Her shoes were plastic, a dangerous idiocracy, a pyramid money game the Other was playing.
The nothingness life which Death felt when she gently breezed her hand onto the Other's hand was a model of disrepair, a life never really lived, a hollow shell where a meaningful soul should have been. The touch of Death released the stench of Truth wave after wave before all the eyes, snapping bits of bright light here and there, while the Other swallowed lies then spit them back out.
In the darkness of night when things just aren't right
We peer with our sight
from within the smoke on the mountain top
Into the mind of the white coat find
a lie draped in a truth
the flat line of life
is rife with strife
to ease the stress
We make beautiful sounds
to welcome Some home
green spring grasses all year round
through the foggy window till the time
the Others go
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