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Literature Text
I could count the days, where I wouldn’t see you.
I could wish every night for you to return.
Whatever I do, I’ll remain in the same view,
Where your place is empty and I can’t learn
That you’ll never be there when I need you.
I’ve fought war without my best friend,
Bleeding from my wounds during sleep,
Crying in the darkness, day time I would pretend
That all was well and leave without another peep.
I had barricaded myself until life would amend
All the wrong it had done to me, so I would no longer weep.
Engrave your roman numerals
Of your first breath and your last
Upon my naked skin at the fifth funeral,
Honoring your life instead of when you passed,
Igniting that littlest spark within my pupil—
I’m seeing in black and white and lacking direction;
Bring back the life I once had when there was color.
Show the path I had mistakenly missed when I lost your affection,
Helping me realize the title you will always hold “mother”.
I’ll let it known that you were a blossoming perfection.
Plant your blooming roses in my dead garden
And show me how to brighten my life again.
Tell me that I hadn’t become a failure, a deadly burden—
Plant your roses in the pattern of your roman numerals.
Embrace me when I lose footing as I cry for you at night.
Reassure me that life has more for me, just not your funerals.
Whisper your sweet nothings to me when I’ve finally lost my sight.
I could wish every night for you to return.
Whatever I do, I’ll remain in the same view,
Where your place is empty and I can’t learn
That you’ll never be there when I need you.
I’ve fought war without my best friend,
Bleeding from my wounds during sleep,
Crying in the darkness, day time I would pretend
That all was well and leave without another peep.
I had barricaded myself until life would amend
All the wrong it had done to me, so I would no longer weep.
Engrave your roman numerals
Of your first breath and your last
Upon my naked skin at the fifth funeral,
Honoring your life instead of when you passed,
Igniting that littlest spark within my pupil—
I’m seeing in black and white and lacking direction;
Bring back the life I once had when there was color.
Show the path I had mistakenly missed when I lost your affection,
Helping me realize the title you will always hold “mother”.
I’ll let it known that you were a blossoming perfection.
Plant your blooming roses in my dead garden
And show me how to brighten my life again.
Tell me that I hadn’t become a failure, a deadly burden—
Plant your roses in the pattern of your roman numerals.
Embrace me when I lose footing as I cry for you at night.
Reassure me that life has more for me, just not your funerals.
Whisper your sweet nothings to me when I’ve finally lost my sight.
Literature
For Nice.
A strong Oak stands alone amid the hedgerow. Watching over this season's final yield of wheat. The last stage of the crop rotation. No more than a hardy grass, yet sufficient sustenance no less, for those that tend to the field. I note a ring of scarlet poppies circling the wheat. A blood-stain border, soaking the outer edges of the field. Speckled also, in amongst the crop, in that same sporadic pattern seen in blood splatter. A metaphor for the sacrifices made in ensuring that the village stays fed perhaps? Or perhaps, an aesthetic. Planted by the farm hand with little to no particular reasoning, other than just, well, for nice. The dog grows impatient, pulling at his lead as though to say that sometimes things just are, that I ought not to ponder on them for too long, lest I rob them of their inherent beauty. I scratch him behind the ears in agreeance. "good boy, lets get you home".
Literature
Paper Plane
I write my dreams on the wings of a paper plane And send it gliding from my window. Maybe someone will know To throw it again and continue this chain. I write my dreams on the wings of a paper plane. It's still flying, I saw it yesterday, It's now so far away And I don't know if my dreams are still the same. I write my dreams on the wings of a paper plane, And send it gliding from my window. The last one got destroyed by rain, But it's a sunny day tomorrow.
Literature
The Lost City
I. A Signpost Among the trees a pillar rears Like a signpost saying, “You Are Here.” Around its angles, windsong plays A song that dreams of brighter days. “A shallow life!” declares the Night. “You must know the Dark to see the Light.” II. The Scene is Set The pillar opens on infinite cities Of ruined dreams and forgotten deities. The shadow few will face, I wield. Before it even Hell shall yield. The people sleep, to the Evil blind. They feed it with apathetic minds. III. I Face the Enemy I face, with music in my soul The growing oppression of the world I draw it close, I let it in; My True Song burns it from within. The Order and Angles of organized life Can’t lock up the wilds of Love and Strife. IV. A Call to Action Embrace your shadow and you will find Your soul’s true passion, long left behind. Follow the spiral of life off the clock. Escape the fortress, break the lock. Seek the Truth in a city of Lies Wielding the Sword of Hope: your prize. V. I Return Above By God’s grace
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