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I am waiting
for the memories to fade,
like shadows in twilight,
as even we could not last,
through the dark times
as you walked away.

Our hearts burned colder,
our thoughts went astray,
the rift grew wider,
until nothing remained,
only our weary souls
and tear stains.

©️Lizzie Bevis
They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
A counter-point mirrored in style to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4983752/good-words-are-clickbait/

The morale of the story is:

try not to dictate creation and by extension freedoms.
I gazed into the mirror’s eye,
And it whispered of lives left behind.
"Whose lives?" I asked.
"Yours," it sighed,
"but never truly yours.”

Beneath the skin of the world,
there are names no lips have touched in centuries.
They linger in the mouths of ghosts,
curl in the spaces between prayers.
What do we call the ones
who have outlived even memory?
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps that is the final death.

If
If I could reply,
without the pain.

If I were bold,
to break these chains.

It would be as,
If I could fly,
in heaven sky,
to stop time’s sigh.
We all wish heaven, don't we?
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