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Literature Text
As we breathe our last
Not life, not nature, nor God
Death is our mother
Not life, not nature, nor God
Death is our mother
Literature
March of Time
March of Time
Time marches to its own sound.
Tick tock, thump thump, click boom.
In a fraction of a second everything you know and love can be gone.
Life ends and life begins but time pays no mind.
It just keeps marching to its own beat.
Tick tock, thump thump, click boom.
Literature
Time
Dark grey clouds hung in the sky, lifeless, obscuring the sun, casting the world in perpetual twilight. The air spun listlessly, without purpose, meandering, lost. Lightning flashed in the distance, but it was dull, and arched lazily among the clouds; no thunder followed.
He knelt on his knees on the barren ground, head bowed with eyes closed, as if asleep. But he was not sleeping; how could he sleep? The pain of incredible loss and despair seared through him, leaving a cold ache that seeped into his bones. No, he did not sleep, could not sleep.
The last words of the prophecy slipped into his mind, unbidden:
When all has come to end,
a
Literature
Purity.
I have a mask, a guise, a camoflauged contour of my soul.
I put it on at sunrise and for most of my wakefullness, so it remains.
Only when I have the luxury of my own company do I reveal my true self and only to myself.
It awaits a trigger, a feeling, a certain serenity as nothing else brings me out except me.
It is a necissary sense of selfishness.
Humans are naturaly selfish creatures.
Deny me my right to myself and you rid yourself of my bliss.
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This poem should be fairly simple. Basically, I view life as the exact same concept as death, not its opposite. So when we "die" and cross over, we really just keep living all the same.
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Comments6
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Simple, eloquent, I like it a lot.