(To Sarah Bernhardt)

How vain and dull this common world must seem
To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe:
Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream
For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played
With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.

Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.

Who said that love was fire?
I know that love is ash.
It is the thing which remains
When the fire is spent,
The holy essence of experience.

i remember december
of last year
your words, warmer
than the summer
of that year
you were so warm
and now you're cold
you still display charm
even when cold as ice
it seems like a
lesson learned
makes me
think twice
when i come
into contact
with a
loving
spirit
a lover of life
a believer of hope
makes me want to reach high
in order to achieve as much
your strength inspires me
it always has done
it's quite tragic
how things
change

sadness is a numbing sensation
leaves you emotionally frozen
you never know where you start
you never know where you end

it makes you lose touch
with yourself

it drains you so much
of everything you love

as if self-destruction
wasn't enough
it makes you crave
to bleed out
all of the
bitterness
inside

scars remain
on your skin

love remains
on your lips

memories stain
and leave a trail
of where they
were last seen