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Tools of war, once glorious,
now rust in the barren earth.
I wonder what became of the soldiers —
those who abandoned conscience.
I wonder what became of the martyred —
“Heroes”, they are called.
Heroes don’t die.
Like a tattoo
in the apple of my eye,
their memory is etched
deep into my heart.
When I open my eyes,
I see their story—
how they entered my world,
how their presence
made my heart dance.
My smile stretched wide,
echoing the joy
that bloomed in my chest.

And then—
it hits me.
They’re gone.

Maybe in their memory,
I’m no more than a footprint
at the edge of the ocean,
erased
by the current
of newer tides.

But why?
I whisper to myself,
cradling the ache
of what never became.
Was any of it real?
Or was it only me—
lonely,
seeing love
in everything that breathed?

My heart bleeds...
but let it.
Maybe when it’s dry,
the hurting will stop.
Then again,
perhaps my memory
will fade too—
like a shadow
sinking with the sun.

Maybe we aren’t meant
to hold too tightly
to the ones we meet
in this brief life...

Still—
I miss them.

By Setty Leon
I wrote this in a moment of stillness, when memory felt louder than presence, and absence lingered like a shadow.

To anyone who has loved deeply and lost quietly—you’re not alone.
Insults thrown as easily as tableware,
And I catch every single one.
I never learned to duck, dodge, or weave-
Plates fall and shatter,
Ceramic cuts my skin.

I stopped trying to get out,
Accepting the pain,
Because I believed I let it begin.

But pain never asks permission.
It just makes itself at home.
Living with it is hard-
But no one tells you
How hard it is
Once you kick it out.

Plates no longer fly.
There are no holes in the walls.
Nothing lurks around the corners,
But still,
Your heart races in the dark.

Safety is an illusion
You can barely see.
Healing is so daunting
When you're attached to pain
You shouldn't be.
I didn’t notice the damage until I began the repairs-
patching holes, sweeping quiet shards,
still cleaning messes long after the breaking stopped.
Draumgaldr Jul 23
Whatever I think, I say it and mean it.
I wear my heart on the seams of my sleeve.
The coming wind holds my poems and their meanings,
Like smoke, I let it pass over me.

I follow every laughter, every melancholy feeling.
I tread every road that I ever see.
To be alive is to bear the searing
Fiery breath of what caused us to be.

I, that hold the cold of summer leaving,
Can only sense that I hold my poetry—
That which I hope has sailed with the weary,
That which I dread always follows me.
Whispers of fire and smoke trail behind the steps we cannot see—carrying burdens and blessings alike. This is the breath that births and haunts.
Draumgaldr Jul 23
In separations, the smell of death lingers,
And in reunions, life, warmth, and solid timber.
The forest sings for the leaves of east,
And welcomes thee, then whimpers—
Of joy, what joy, what wonderful winds
That bring the breath of winter
That cling onto my lady’s breast
And promise me to bring her.
Breath caught between seasons, a whisper where endings and beginnings entwine.
Draumgaldr Jul 23
Who in this world could claim the right
To define what is a memory?

To be able to see what others can’t see,
To be able to smell flowers in dreams—
We are all a walking treasury.

What magic we make that grows with age
And creeps through our melodies,

That trickles from books, from lasting looks, from yawning gentle poetry.

What words can change in an hour or an age
Of long past tales and history?

Can we remember or try to dismember
The meaning of a eulogy?

Do we surrender to cold December
And live again in memories,
Or wish that someday we break asunder
And become immortal memories?
A quiet reflection on the elusive nature of memory — how it shapes us and lingers beyond time.
John Jul 23
What do you see
When you look at the mirror
Is it the pain and sorrow you have
Masked by a big smile and cheery attitude

Or is it your eyes that lost all life within them
And yet live on in delusion that
Things might get better

Is it your arms that have lost their strength
But have to carry your burden
That is filled with suffering and regret

Or is it your legs that can't walk anymore
But still run in an attempt
To get away from your mistakes

In the end, what do you see
When you look at the mirror
Is it the fact that the mirror is shattered
And is reflecting a broken version of yourself

Or is it the fact that
Even if the mirror was fixed
It would never fix...

The part of you that is already broken
lisagrace Jul 23
...

Of despair,
the verge upon
I sung the dirge
Through tears it swelled -
a painful curse
Why vie for things
that cannot be?
But this lament
was a fallacy
The cacophony softens,
and I recall -

"La musique adoucit
les pleurs"
“La musique adoucit les pleurs” – Pomme
(“Music softens the crying.”)
I had an idea
  Of what to write
                          say
                        recor­d
But got lost
like a rabbit who took
the wrong turn at Albuquerque—
and so I’m lost for words,
but here I am.
Notes
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