Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 9 · 312
Meditation On Death
We are all bewildered dancers
Lost in an incomprehensible ballet—
Woven tightly through a rich tapestry,
Drawn from contrasting colors,
Yet forming a boundless whole,
Waltzing hand in hand—
In love and hate, joy and suffering,
Dark and light, death and life.

The universe—a radiant church window,
Fracturing light into polychromatic unity,
Drifting shards of stained glass,
Piercing through the drama of duality,
Rippling into a sea of endless complexity,
Wedged between the boundaries
of stars and the space that forms them,
A perfection found in imperfection,
Beneath this sea of contrast lies truth:
How could we be anything at all
Without two sides to make us whole?

Before the technicolor skies formation,
We were the loneliest deity,
Infinity alone in a room made of itself,
Where everything was everywhere,
And time unfolded all at once.
So we crafted ourselves a dream—
From the core of our mirrored soul,
A place where I am you and you are me,
So we may live and perish in grace.

So we may play a game with ourselves,
Performing on this boundless stage,
An intricate puzzle piece,
Fitting together in a dance of chaos,
Meticulously designed to deceive ourselves,
So we may treasure life in the face of death.
Navigators of the in-between,
Wandering the maze of nothingness.

If infinity could dream,
Its deepest longing would be
To grasp something real—
To feel the grass beneath its feet,
As it runs across the hills of our earth,
Savoring the fleeting bliss of it all.

The present is so precious,
It hints at a reason we call it so—
A split second glimpse of meaning
In the eternal dance of existence.
Humans tread this lonely universe,
as an ever-dispersing body,
but our I’s never meet.

Behind the velvet curtains of our minds,
within the iris of our eyes,
rests an endless expanse of stars,
refracting off a crystalline hall of mirrors—
a boundless,
eternal reflection,
devoid of every word.

Whispering so softly in us,
behind all thought, all form,
revealing everything,
yet ultimately nothing—
nothing at all.
Sep 3 · 234
A Meditation on Memory
My body is a paintbrush—
Weaving its soul into the fabric of time,

Living out its own slice of infinity,
Across this canvas made of memory,

Dripping upon the hardwood floor,
To trickle up my slender spine,

Slipping into my porcelain skull,
like a blade to the softest silk,

So gentle, it almost feels natural,
rotting my mind like red wine,
a beautiful corpse,

Decaying into lost photographs never captured,
That drift without purpose,
in the arms of a motherly wind,
To which death is but a dream.
My eyes are pure sunlight,
Streaming through this window,

My body- merely dust,
Waltzing through our classroom,

My soul sleeps on this ruby floor,
Bathing in my midday glow,

Filling every imperfection,
every crack and crevice,

To blanket your eyes,
With my fiberglass fingers,
Until my ghost seems to shine.

— The End —