Sometimes you lose someone before they’re gone. Sometimes you only really see them as they’re passing. Sometimes you miss the simplicity of strong arms lifting a little child or that sandpaper touch of a scruffy bedtime nuzzle. Sometimes all the memories, good and bad, start to fade ‘Til all that’s left is a blurry feeling, a desire not to lose any more. Sometimes what we miss most is the idea of who might have been.
When it’s time to die, let us not discover that we have never lived.” — Henry David Thoreau, Philosopher
the sigh of a thousand raindrops bosom of earth convulsed in wretched discontent so too a mother repulsed by the evidence her helpless babe will never taste her milk again nor will the flower bloom nor will the reed pipe flute nor will the heav'ns rest in peace until her soul compulsed kills death
Observing nature against nature Violence to survive What dies feeds what wills to live Bloodshed Death is our way of life What gives way the thrill of the hunt Decay is fair game When disease is the rights of corruption And in our best attempt to heal Every remedy comes with a side effect When every dose is poison Are we lost for the symptoms of recovery Going through the withdrawals of the loss Every love greets us with the cost of greif in passing Death is our final fork in the road To seal the end in an existence of...