oh how i hear the crying of the bones in the cold earth. they call to those that they knew once, their voices like bells ringing out in the night, singing o death is here,o death is here, bringing them to the memories of those who once knew their voices and beheld their faces. oh how i suffer at the sound, because i know that they are loved more than i, missed more than i, appreciated more than i, their few memories live on as perfect, all grievances forgotten in the light of their death. oh how i long to be them, oh how i long to be loved as they are loved, as if they are the most precious; oh how i long to be remembered as they are remembered, perfect and without blame; oh how i long to be missed as they are missed, because they will not come back to their lovers; oh how i long to be appreciated as they are, for their great deeds are their defining characteristics in death and all of my faults flaunt themselves at my every mistake. oh death how alluring you can be, toying with me, making me see you as something worth having. i know that when i am gone i will be as they are, the most beautiful and most perfect in everyone's eyes but my own. i will receive the greatness in the eyes of my loves, and i will be remembered as all i want to be, only i will know how they thought of me before. because it is true, that all do not know what they have until it's gone and though i am nothing, i will be something in the old memories for theirs. oh death, how perfectly imperfect, all that i long for in life can only be achieved in you detrimental grasp, for i want to live to see the reward that only you can give, but i must die to obtain it.
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The Poem of the Dead
Poetrylol sounds morbid ik but its a lil piece of poetry that is basically about how people seem to value you more when your dead than when your alive.
