Perhaps we are not afraid of death
But of our names plucked from the air,
Of the silence that surrounds a thing that's no longer there.
For we never really know
The lifespan of a single sound,
How many years after a body stops
A name will stick around.
Perhaps it stretches generations,
Echoes one last time, then never,
Until the space it's filled replaced
By it's unknown loss forever.
Or maybe there's another way
It lives after we fade,
It's why we write our names' on books we own
And all we've ever made.
It's a silver remembrance
In a world prone to forget,
The taste of who we were
On the lips of one we never met.
The hope they'll stumble on the stories,
We have loved, worn down with age,
That there that they'll find what we had left:
Our name upon the cover page.
And for just that fleeting moment
It's at though we had beaten death,
That in the whisper of those words
We have taken another breath.
YOU ARE READING
Poems 'n Shit.
PoesíaRead the fucking title. P.S. I'm a little shit that does whatever the bloody hell I want and will update irregularly. Meaning I might post nine chapters then not post for a week. (Mainly because imma lazy ass bitch.)
