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Merry 7d
I’m just a postmodern bush poet
Roaming and roving rusty roads
Writing, wordsmithing, amid yellow grass
Fondling the various ******* of Mother Nature
The hills and mountains, all her nooks and crannies
Looking at peeled potato sheeps
Dreaming about what great stews they would make
Listening to a bit of AC/DC
With no wuckin’ furries
Getting eyed by work dogs
With no sense of self-preservation
Telling me I’m going to die all the same
As those rotting roos lying in the dirt
Sodomised by cars just like mine
Their pink, esoteric entrails getting pecked out
By the crows I call my friends
Bhill Sep 17
My mind is drifting in and out of reality
It's happening so fast that I feel a sort of mortality
Is it wrong to enjoy the drifting
Is it wrong to expect the mortality to last
Is it wrong to want to share my drifted mind with others

Who would want to know that minds can break out
Should I be afraid
Should I prevail in the mindless chatter of mortality

It's distracting....

Brian Hill - # 233
Does your mind go for walks?
Chris Neilson Sep 15
We have to exit
our lives on the whole world stage
so new life can grow
We can't live forever
Sara Kellie Sep 8
A flower lady stands guard at the overgrown garden of broken stone teeth.
  Where a million flakes of silver and white covers neatly laid out boxes of bones.
  Small, separated audiences quietly chatting to themselves, unaware that no one can hear.
  Where their cold grey words drip from frozen blue lips on a falling mist of old sorrow.
  The trees once in full bloom appear dead, reflecting all life around.
  Where the butterflies and ladybirds used to play, just as the bones in the boxes did yesterday.
Those in attendance file out one by one. They peer left and then right, realising the flower lady has gone.
And it's on their way home as the time ticks on by, the realisation that
one day,
they too,
must die.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Notes of Mortality.
The Dybbuk Sep 8
In mathematics,
A set of vectors are linearly independent if and only if their null space
is comprised exclusively
by the origin.
The only solution, is 0. Nothing.
There is no real way to describe them, other than, "because,"
And that's as good of anything I suppose.
Because to be linearly independent is a Godhood in of itself;
You cannot be defined in terms of the other vectors in your set,
Bystanders to your mathematically perfect
freedom.
I love music
I promise you

But I'm not
Positive
That I truly
Wanted
It any darker

Or that I was
Really ready

My Lorde

"Hineni, hineni
I'm ready, my lord"
Leonard
Invisible Sep 2
A short life, but adventurous, nonetheless.
Die young, in a mysterious way,
When your body is still beautiful.

Your mind is still remembered.
What is that, if not immortality?
Your eyes dead, but your breath still lingering.

Most of us die,
Our existence shoved into a drawer.
As bright as we may have been.

Our fires are put out.
The pages shred.
Our dreams, our spirit, scattered.

Mortality runs in all our veins,
We are all subject to death,
But not all death is permanent.

After all, most of us
Are only mortals,
Simply wishing for immortality.

Something we know we won't have.
"One tends to die young, and then they burn your body - dust to dust, in the literal sense. And then we vanish into the shadows of history, nary a mark on the page of a mundane book to remind the world that once we existed at all."
                                                                      - Clockwork Angel, Will Herondale

"That's immortality, my darlings."  - Pretty Little Liars, Alison Dilaurentis
Prerna Sinha Aug 24
And one fine day,
I saw her departing.
She stood still and calm,
My love that had no life.
In my errands to find her,
And give her life.
Tried to reinstate love in her,
Missed the warmth of her arms.
And love pouring from her words,
Lied meaningless before me.
My head on the coffin of her,
And hopes of her being immortal.
That she would wake up,
To kiss me alive.
She was mortal,
But was so was her love?
This is a poem I dedicate to my Grandma, who left for heavenly abode 4 years back. She is alive in me, and she has taught me the most powerful lesson of life 'Love, and when you love, love unconditionally'.
Lawrence Hall Aug 23
A fuzzy structure there beside the road -
It proves to be the rib cage of the dead
Which nights before enclosed the heart and lungs
Of a creature on its errands dutiful

Gone now to buzzards and bacterial decay
On this, neither the Road to Damascus
Nor to Emmaus, and the Good Samaritan
Could have done nothing had he come along

It sinks into the dust, and so will we
Beneath the tire-treads of mortality
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
B D Caissie Aug 16
The doctor said I’ve not much time to live. I cried for I had so much more to give. I walked the streets for hours lost in thought. Fate it seemed had led me to this spot. To a weathered old man with an understanding look. Holding a paper lantern he insisted that I took.

I got in my car and drove long into the night. To leave behind the drowning city lights. I found a spot that overlooked the sea. Seemed like the perfect place to set it free.

I released my paper lantern standing on my car. The cool zephyr slowly carried it to the stars. I sat on my hood and watched it float away. I knew like this paper lantern my light will slowly fade.
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