Testimony of a Dead Soul
(The Blood-red Moon)


Advance: Don’t be fooled, dead souls live—it is one of the seventy-two deaths, and yet it can die, that also is one of the seventy-two deaths. I saw where they go, they flock, and they toil, and they lay cowed in corners, and they go on a journey, over the Canyon of Dread…and much, much more…! But this is the first time I’ve yet heard of a dead soul (and saw with my own eyes) it go where it did. Here now is what I saw and heard during one dilemma of an escape— here is the testimony of one dead soul!

In the quiet of a dreadful night—newly dead souls go on their last plight, their testimonies never to be told or heard (until the last judgment), but here I shall tell of one I saw, after the light and dark angels came to take this dead life to be: into its deep, pitted, entwined hushed skies, dim and cold were the sounds, around his soul’s entombed skeleton—he waited. His heart, frostbite; to his brain, numbness came, produced dead tissue, even gangrene seemed to seep in; here the stars guard heaven, silently stone-frozen overhead! Here, yes, here is where he thought to meet peace—rather he found he had to wait for the archangel, or hell’s representative, called the beast to be taken onto his journey’s end.
Remote, no ears to hear the clutter of a million words coming into the mind, to entrench the throat: here, oh yes here you are dead to the living world, and for a moment, just a moment ago you were there, now this moment is new you know not where you are, —but have a good guess where you are going: here the sky has eternal eyes looking down on you, eyes with cosmic tides—waves that make your head sway, break and sway, as all you sins are weighted, and a war rises in your chest, unrest, and you see the pit, the abyss, ebbing, and angels on each side of the hour glass, far-reaching, and waiting for prejudgment: the heavens above, and his numbing face—now changeless, and slowly he notices a strange peace—defeat, and silently the dark, the eldritch dark, has little relevance, his eyes are simply staring, in the cold, oddly numbed looking space: feet feeling for bridges to find balance, he feels he is on a limb of a tree.

And he sees Kings and Queens, and rock stars, and once famous human beings, heading with dark colored demonic beings with wide stretched out charcoal wings, into a canyon of flames, blazing firmaments— yea! Those who thought death was silence in the grave are now moaning to their hosts, “Why me!” others cry “I hope there is no immortality” and still others joke, “I see foes and enemies,” for the moment there is no harmony, only a perpetual cosmic dust storm all about, and dim is the sun, and he is handed a book, his book of sins, and he looks up towards heaven, but he gets no tidings, and now heaven has a face, one it says: “Who is he?” he knows the only thing he ever gave to heaven was disgrace, whence he cried, makes no difference, yea has died, the sum of his days is weighted with his sins, mindlessly he has played the game—the ten-winged beast has laid before his loins: to include: human greed, the lack of mercy, cursed Christ and gave to Satan, the deeds of he Holy Spirit (yes, he committed the unpardonable sin): and now he realizes it has always been in his hands, and somehow, he seems to adjust to the darkness quite well, no sign of tears nowhere, and yea, he sees the kind of moon, he lived under, “…blood-red.”

I see no sign of tears, no tears, I wonder why; I hear an angel whisper with fainting breath, almost silent, “…a blood-red moon means, he protests death, wants to see it annulled, yet he neither wants to go to heaven, for his soul says so, he would not fit among the saints, he would not be able to war with them, lie or cheat, nor does he care for the devil’s creed, where all are equal, with deceiving hearts, ill will, lies, and anything goes if it pleases thee—thus, he wants rule for the many. With his spectral mind, I think he will pick quiet and still-peace, strange as it seems the eternal grave is where he seeks.”
Eh! Yes! Oh yes, I saw and heard all this, and I learned that the death journey has a midnight sky with watchful eyes; I was one of those peering into this dying dreadful face, with barbaric deep eyes; it was if he was given a choice, divine it seemed, and divided was he, and expired was his will, he wanted to remain unaltered, and back on earth, with the same untouched corruptness in his veins, but earth didn’t want him anymore, no more than heaven. Hell didn’t care, they had many like him already, he was but half as bad as those he’d face, damaged destructed corroded souls, flames in their human frames, and he didn’t want to face them, as a result he chose none, but his heart preferred the chose of everlasting silence in the grave, one of the seventy-two deaths. And he looked at Teiai’el the Lesser (of the order of lesser angelic beings), said “He looks unbiased, let him chose for me,” and he did just that, and found himself in an aquarium, swimming around like a dead-bat fish, everyone looking in, and he looking out—knowing the torment on the day of the Great White Judgment— was yet to come, hence, he’d have to go through all this again: and perhaps this was his due punishment for all his sins.

And this was my friends, his testimony; I give it on his behalf, a stranger I once met on a lonely path, in the mists and transfer from life to the next.


4-5-2008 ((#2347) (written at home in the afternoon, in Lima, Peru on a Saturday, the sun baking the city below it))