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We will all die.
It’s just sad,
the price of living is leaving,
the cost of love is loss.

One day, the phone will ring,
and the world will shift.
A father gone too soon,
a lover buried beneath the weight of memory,
a mother fading into silence.
And we will stand there,
hands empty,
hearts heavy,
wondering how time dared to move forward
when ours just stopped.

Some go fast,
like a whisper stolen by the wind.
Some linger,
fighting a war they were never meant to win.
Some leave behind wreckage,
a father who never made it home,
a lover lost in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We dress grief in black,
wrap it in condolences,
but no words can fill the space
where someone once breathed.

And yet—
we wake up.
We carry their names on our tongues,
we learn to walk with the weight,
because that’s what the living do.

It’s cruel.
It’s inevitable.
And still, we love,
knowing one day,
we too will be the silence
someone else learns to live with.
When I was young,
I used to go to
the museum,
where art was
hung high
on walls—
Higher than
The Hanged Man
on The Hanging Tree.

A painting stood
out in one room,
both beautiful
and terrifying…
The Mona Lisa.

Her essence—
Trapped in her
own framed
prison of hell.
Her skin shines
old gold,
yet etched with
cuts and bruises
underneath Death’s
black robe of sorrow.
Her calm smile
hides a cold secret…

Her dark,
red-veined hair
stretched out
like a river,
yet tangled
down like vines.

Her eyes spoke
her tale the most—
restless and fearful.
Reaching out to
feast attention from
both critics and lost
soul’s eyes,
like Medusa.
I could hear
her echoes.
Almost as if
I heard her
ghost speak
the words—
“Help…”

She reminded me
of my mother…
Sometimes people
spend their adult hood
getting over their youth
children treated wood.
Hospice room's machines
a healthy noise harmony
song of the Opera queens
perfect pitch is the irony.

The end is always near
morphine drip constants
dreams of lovers so dear
death gets what it wants.

The final absolute end
with her infinity reach.
Flowers mourners send
Hymn a buzzard screech.
 Feb 8
Lucan
Love's a loaded craps game, played
by ****** people, lads who dream
a sweet and willing cavalcade
of perfect mates who can't exist
(though in the yahoo's mind they must,
or how would any man get kssed
or be excused the wolfish lust
of ****** people, cads who dream?)
This is just a (necessary) corrective to all the slap-happy sappy drivel everyone keeps churning out in the hyper-inflated Hollywoods of our yearnings and desires. I know, I know -- it seems so REAL at the time.
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