Is steadfast but haste to make,
In mute but bird is sung heart,
Nor better is walking this day ought,
For brew in beer and sung in wine is day,
Little by little, hopes and dreams unfold,
Some day, there was a wild boar to chase
That never ended with hearts unfold; so
Take this time to grieve the loss of dread,
So fear the loss of utmost dread, and never
Call the heathens that bake your soul today.
I call myself alone because I am a heathen,
I am a murderer of my own soul who begs mercy,
Thinking back at all the life I could have had,
At some point in childhood I remember saying no,
And some point I remember knowing what I didn’t,
But looking at the stars I can see a light:
The Universe is enveloped in the womb of darkness,
When all is woe, when all is without hope, know that
All that comes out of the darkness becomes existence;
For you are existence, and your lonely is a reality.
When your story ends on the final note with no remorse,
That alone has more value than a copy of the original.
When it is time to say goodbye, remember the story.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
Tags:
, , , , , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: