I would think much fonder of death
if I could look at it from another angle.
I used to think I could see past it
feel with my heart and brain
as the walls wrapped out from the doorway
into something spacious. Unfurling and untangling.
But now I see I was just imagining that.
It hangs at the border of things
and if I stand still I think I can see into it
but step close, change position, and it stays two-dimensional.
A shadow on the wall, an edgeless image
beyond which doesn’t exist,
This flatness is what scares me
There is no stepping through death, only to it.
And upon reaching it, compress and
flatten into a representation of yourself.
An image that no one else can pass through anymore.