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
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)
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.
Dirt caked crust
To layers of mantle
Above afflicted fireplace
Bearing picture frames
Pride, then regret
I will not die here
Two tiers from hell
I feel it burning
In my core
To take me in pity
As I wish it had done
Love a great story
All is transient
— The End —