Often I wonder how the story ends.
For all of us, unanimous
as one, an overall end
rather than in our own singularity
Only for us.
Don't you feel special?
How sweet, in death, do we finally find peace. Something that can never be accomplished by the living, for in ourselves, discourse is inevitable.
And if not peace, rest. The only true escape to all personal troubles, more to be passed to someone else.
To be born and to die, same in theory. For it is experienced but not remembered, the brink of some fate greater than ourselves in its eternal validity, and is always done alone.
So when the sun finally sets
And the moon shows its subduing face,
Remember that they too could not have come from nothing.
Should the time come,
How long will it take for the tides to crash against all we know?
Or should you fade away softly,
Like a gentle palm of colored powder, Raised delicately to the sky to drift into the breeze.
No thoughts but our own;
In birth, life, and death are we alone.
Rules ignored for the sake of survival, push and shove for one's own sake.
Or the quiet path of blowing away to forgo loss of meaning and its pains.
So must you decide,
Which of her faces will you take
When the moon finally cracks?
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryJust a collection of poems I wrote, most have darker themes, so here's your angst/trigger warning if you need it. I write these on a pc so if the format looks weird on your phone that's probably why.
