“So will you walk with me tonight?”
He says to me from in a dream,
And so we wander castle halls
That never seem to end —
He died so many years ago.
I do not know of what we search;
Or why he haunts me in the night –
My long lost friend,
My lonely
Friend
Trigger Warning
The loud noise
The last thing
A flash of fire
A flesh ripped up
Where no one will go
Where no one can speak
Your own guard turns on you
Your own town lain to waste
Burn down the whole thing
Burn up the last shred
Voice of a man
Voice no more heard
So much death
So much hate
the moments that make up a life
are always in movement
ever fluid, constantly changing
and we know
the ripples in the pool
that are our lives
will one day no longer be visible
the echoes of our laughter
the memories of our tears
all alike will be enshrouded
in silence
this Summer Evening
perfect in splendor
soaked in truth and beauty
ripples now within me
and its echoes will remain
for as long as I do
for what is eternal in this life
is our transience
She is crying
She does not cry for her own sadness
She cries because she is alive
And feels the overwhelming grief of all
And of life itself
Of what we all know
Should be
Instead of
What is
What always
Is
So many hands that ever turned this faucet
Have gone to rest, they’re sleeping underground;
Or had their ashes spread upon the desert,
With only wind for company, or sound —
We all get our few turns here at the faucet,
But don’t be fooled by rust, neglect or age;
How many turns we get, there is no knowing,
Just our few lines, and then
We leave the stage
Dear Crito, now, suggests that I should go.
I cannot do this, for it would be wrong;
And though I know the ship arrives ere long,
I’ll stay and live the only life I know.
The life I’ve lived since I was in my youth;
To hold my head up high, and daily walk,
To never from my duty run or balk,
And live that I might only seek the truth
I stand by this door and hold
Scraps of paper in my hand
Telling of the life and times
Of a single much-loved man
I hand one to each who enters
They sit down on wooden seats
Thinking of the sleeping knight whose
True kind heart no longer beats
Gone from us without a warning
Gone to travel, far too soon
We, too deaf to hear it coming
Strains of death’s familiar tune
