Thus if men would remember the duties they are to perform in being heads, some would not stand a tip-toe as they do, thinking themselves Lords & Rulers…
Perhaps we’re not afraid of death
But of our own name plucked from the air
Of the silence that surrounds a thing
That’s just no longer there.
For we never really know
The lifespan of a single sound,
How many years after a body stops
A name will stick around.
Perhaps it stretches generations
Echoes one last time, then never,
Until the space it filled’s replaced
By its unknown loss forever.
Or maybe there’s another way
It lives after we fade,
It’s why we write our names’ on books we own
And all we’ve ever made.
It’s a sliver of remembrance
In a world prone to forget,
The taste of who we were
On lips of one we’ve never met.
The hope they’ll stumble on the stories
We have loved, worn down with age,
That there they’ll find what we had left:
Our name upon the cover page.
And for just that fleeting moment
It’s as though we’ve beaten death,
That in the whisper of those words
We have taken one more breath.
The best form of revenge will always be success. It’s the one thing no one can touch, nor can they take it from you.
Brown eyes are a tale of endless possibilities; drowning in mystery.
But your blue eyes: they make for great poetry.
Some people are born with tornados in their lives,but constellations in their eyes.Other people are born with stars at their feet,but their souls are lost at sea.
We hold onto a love that was never really ours to hold in the first place, in the hope it’ll never die when in fact it has already died; it’s keeping that love in our thoughts that resurrects it each day, each night.