soc.
... Stream-of-consciousness writing is... strange.
15 minutes of listless typing gave me this.
... I suppose I was in a strange mood.
the house is empty
and the ghosts linger
muttering and whispering
trailing their cold
cold
fingers across the back of my neck
there's a soft mournful chime in the wind
makes me look up
from where my head is bent
poring over yellowed pages and faint notes
what was that
ah
the bells are tolling
seems like someone has died
well
i don't recall who it was
was it ever announced
no
alright
the wind blows
something bangs in the back.
it sounds like the shiver of bones
and a last dying rattle
death comes for all of us
be it in bed
or out on the street
death reaches out with warm (cold) hands
whichever it feels like
and takes us away
our time comes when it will come
there's no resisting it
i don't see why people have to talk about it like
it's a mystery no one will ever solve
i think it's simple
your body fails in some way
and you die
or you get run over
or you are shot to death
but we will never remain immortal
we will pass into the past
into history
forgotten
but
if we are remembered
if we leave our mark
on the world
is that not enough?
we will never die
as long as we are remembered
a sigh. it's time for me to go
i can feel it
the wind makes its way into the house
through some open door
and steals away the last breath
leaving behind an empty husk
blood settling
eyes open and unseeing.
death is not pretty
or mysterious
it is just
a way of life and
everyone knows that they will have to die
but yet they insist on leaving their mark
on the world
in ugly block letters
carved into the face of the earth
with concrete, in sprawling cities of grey
because they want to be remembered;
but what about those shades
that will never be remembered like that
in a grand ceremony
or starburst of fire as a world is wiped out?
they are not remembered
but only live in an old man's memory
growing old together
living, loving, laughing
so
live a good life, die a good death
learn to love your life
because it's the only one you'll get
15 minutes of listless typing gave me this.
... I suppose I was in a strange mood.
the house is empty
and the ghosts linger
muttering and whispering
trailing their cold
cold
fingers across the back of my neck
there's a soft mournful chime in the wind
makes me look up
from where my head is bent
poring over yellowed pages and faint notes
what was that
ah
the bells are tolling
seems like someone has died
well
i don't recall who it was
was it ever announced
no
alright
the wind blows
something bangs in the back.
it sounds like the shiver of bones
and a last dying rattle
death comes for all of us
be it in bed
or out on the street
death reaches out with warm (cold) hands
whichever it feels like
and takes us away
our time comes when it will come
there's no resisting it
i don't see why people have to talk about it like
it's a mystery no one will ever solve
i think it's simple
your body fails in some way
and you die
or you get run over
or you are shot to death
but we will never remain immortal
we will pass into the past
into history
forgotten
but
if we are remembered
if we leave our mark
on the world
is that not enough?
we will never die
as long as we are remembered
a sigh. it's time for me to go
i can feel it
the wind makes its way into the house
through some open door
and steals away the last breath
leaving behind an empty husk
blood settling
eyes open and unseeing.
death is not pretty
or mysterious
it is just
a way of life and
everyone knows that they will have to die
but yet they insist on leaving their mark
on the world
in ugly block letters
carved into the face of the earth
with concrete, in sprawling cities of grey
because they want to be remembered;
but what about those shades
that will never be remembered like that
in a grand ceremony
or starburst of fire as a world is wiped out?
they are not remembered
but only live in an old man's memory
growing old together
living, loving, laughing
so
live a good life, die a good death
learn to love your life
because it's the only one you'll get