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Alek Mielnikow Nov 2019
We write prose in
the dead-cold Winter air,
where the old works we
cared for are frozen.

We buried their poets
in the dirt, along with
their bones, beneath
sleet headstones
of inscriptions meant
for the passerby.

Soon Spring’s rain shall
wash the prayers away, and
her warmth will deliver us
from poetry to life.

by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Midnight Thinker May 2019
On my gravestone under the name,
“Memento mori” the only phrase,
Written as prayer in dark frame,
These words ’ll glow like endless blaze.

It’s all for humans I’ve to say,
Remember living through each day,
We’re the mortals in short play,
Thus, keep on riding in own sway.

Under enormous sky grave lies,
Along the hills and northern star,
So small in size but so apprise,
Why does man see it so bizarre?

Before the human closed own eyes,
When vanished last man’s memoirs,
And sounds of those crying skies
've passed beneath the fading stars.
lX0st Feb 2019
Dirt caked crust
Gives way
To layers of mantle
Above afflicted fireplace
Bearing picture frames
Bitter memories
Pride, then regret
Memento mori

I will not die here
Two tiers from hell
I feel it burning
In my core
Patiently waiting
To take me in pity
As I wish it had done
Jwhizzle Apr 2015
Memento Mori
Memento Mori
Love a great story
Everything ends
All is transient

— The End —