#lifeanddeath - Hello Poetry

#lifeanddeath

Entropy is increasing, Slowly reducing order to disorder Like all things must, As confirmed by thermodynamics And witnessed by aging, To the point where all things Weather, Wither, Die. ███████████████████████████████ Alive. Love, Loss, Is the malady of experience; A means to interpret energy Such that Whatever choices You must make The first law is final: One conversion, No waste.

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Mar 28

Mar 28, 2026 at 5:57 PM UTC

Entropic Thermodynamics

Entropy is increasing, Slowly reducing order to disorder Like all things must, As confirmed by thermodynamics And witnessed by aging, To the point where all things Weather, Wither, Die. ███████████████████████████████ Alive. Love, Loss, Is the malady of experience; A means to interpret energy Such that Whatever choices You must make The first law is final: One conversion, No waste.

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The wings are enormous— cathedral-spanning things, broken open against the quiet earth like a prayer that forgot its ending. Each feather is long as a forearm, layered in pale gradients— ivory fading into ghost-gray, tips kissed with a faint, dying gold like sunlight remembered, not held. They should be radiant. They should be untouchable. Instead, they drink. Blood finds them slowly at first— a hesitant spill, a trembling red confession slipping from the hollow of a ruined body. Then it comes heavier. It runs in rivulets down the barbs, collects in the soft down where warmth used to live. The feathers darken, one by one, until the angel wears a second skin— crimson layered over heaven. The color is not simple. It is deep, arterial— a red so thick it almost breathes, so dark at its edges it turns to wine, to rot, to something ancient and remembering. It glistens where the light touches it, wet and reverent, like the world itself is mourning in reflections. When it dries, it stiffens the wings— each feather clinging to the next, a fragile architecture of ruin. Run your fingers along them and they would rasp— a soft, brittle whisper like pages of a burned book. The wings are vast enough to have once hidden cities beneath them, to have cradled storms, to have brushed the face of God— and now they lie folded, heavy with gravity and grief, unable to remember the sky. There is sadness here, yes— a deep, marrow-quiet sadness, the kind that settles into bones and builds a home. But there is beauty too. In the way the red blooms against the pale, like roses forced open in winter. In the way death does not erase— it transforms, it paints, it makes something unbearable into something impossible to look away from. The fallen angel does not move. But the wings— the wings still hold a kind of majesty, even soaked, even ruined, even undone. As if life and death were never opposites— only lovers pressing their colors into each other until neither can be told apart.

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Mar 27

Mar 27, 2026 at 8:40 PM UTC

Fallen yet beautiful

The wings are enormous— cathedral-spanning things, broken open against the quiet earth like a prayer that forgot its ending. Each feather is long as a forearm, layered in pale gradients— ivory fading into ghost-gray, tips kissed with a faint, dying gold like sunlight remembered, not held. They should be radiant. They should be untouchable. Instead, they drink. Blood finds them slowly at first— a hesitant spill, a trembling red confession slipping from the hollow of a ruined body. Then it comes heavier. It runs in rivulets down the barbs, collects in the soft down where warmth used to live. The feathers darken, one by one, until the angel wears a second skin— crimson layered over heaven. The color is not simple. It is deep, arterial— a red so thick it almost breathes, so dark at its edges it turns to wine, to rot, to something ancient and remembering. It glistens where the light touches it, wet and reverent, like the world itself is mourning in reflections. When it dries, it stiffens the wings— each feather clinging to the next, a fragile architecture of ruin. Run your fingers along them and they would rasp— a soft, brittle whisper like pages of a burned book. The wings are vast enough to have once hidden cities beneath them, to have cradled storms, to have brushed the face of God— and now they lie folded, heavy with gravity and grief, unable to remember the sky. There is sadness here, yes— a deep, marrow-quiet sadness, the kind that settles into bones and builds a home. But there is beauty too. In the way the red blooms against the pale, like roses forced open in winter. In the way death does not erase— it transforms, it paints, it makes something unbearable into something impossible to look away from. The fallen angel does not move. But the wings— the wings still hold a kind of majesty, even soaked, even ruined, even undone. As if life and death were never opposites— only lovers pressing their colors into each other until neither can be told apart.

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If I were gone today my name would fill the room. Voices soft with sorrow beside a bed of bloom. They’d say I fought through storms, they’d say I carried fire, they’d say my heart was stubborn and refused to ever tire. They’d tell the world my story, how strong they thought I’d been, how bright my quiet courage burned beneath my skin. They’d wish they said it sooner, they’d wish they held me near, they’d wish they’d let me know how much I mattered here. But I’m not gone today. I’m breathing. I’m alive. It’s only just my birthday and the world goes passing by. No flowers on the doorstep, no voices at the door, no sudden rush of memories like they’d speak at death before. And that’s the bitter lesson this quiet day can bring— how loudly love is spoken when it’s said beside a ring of roses round a coffin for a life that can’t reply, yet barely whispered softly to a soul still passing by. Because I’m still here breathing, still standing in the light, still living through the silence of another birthday night. So if the kindest words are saved for when I’m gone— maybe the real tragedy is waiting that long.

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Mar 26

Mar 26, 2026 at 2:48 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

If I Were Gone Today

If I were gone today my name would fill the room. Voices soft with sorrow beside a bed of bloom. They’d say I fought through storms, they’d say I carried fire, they’d say my heart was stubborn and refused to ever tire. They’d tell the world my story, how strong they thought I’d been, how bright my quiet courage burned beneath my skin. They’d wish they said it sooner, they’d wish they held me near, they’d wish they’d let me know how much I mattered here. But I’m not gone today. I’m breathing. I’m alive. It’s only just my birthday and the world goes passing by. No flowers on the doorstep, no voices at the door, no sudden rush of memories like they’d speak at death before. And that’s the bitter lesson this quiet day can bring— how loudly love is spoken when it’s said beside a ring of roses round a coffin for a life that can’t reply, yet barely whispered softly to a soul still passing by. Because I’m still here breathing, still standing in the light, still living through the silence of another birthday night. So if the kindest words are saved for when I’m gone— maybe the real tragedy is waiting that long.

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The flowers in the glass vase Pretty and fragrant. Oh, the pretty flowers. In a little glass vase Alive for so long, Eventually, the water runs out, And the pretty fades. Oh, they have wilted, They were always gonna From the start. Oh, the flowers on the vase Will wilt eventually. All the pretty flowers’ destiny, To be shown, To be unknown, To fade away, Oh, the flowers in the glass vase. They don't last forever, Just like the water they breathe

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Jan 16

Jan 16, 2026 at 12:37 PM UTC

The flowers in the glass vase Pretty and fragrant. Oh, the pretty flowers. In a little glass vase Alive for so long, Eventually, the water runs out, And the pretty fades. Oh, they have wilted, They were always gonna From the start. Oh, the flowers on the vase Will wilt eventually. All the pretty flowers’ destiny, To be shown, To be unknown, To fade away, Oh, the flowers in the glass vase. They don't last forever, Just like the water they breathe

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May the dead rest in peace we say, the rest of dreamless sleep in the afterlife of limbo during the tedious wait for the thereafterlife of heaven Perhaps that is purgatory: idleness till eternity, Amen May the dead rest in peace we say, the unrest of our memory which knows it is too late to undo what has been done Perhaps that is life: being restless until death

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Nov 29, 2025

Nov 29, 2025 at 3:15 AM UTC

May the dead rest in peace we say, the rest of dreamless sleep in the afterlife of limbo during the tedious wait for the thereafterlife of heaven Perhaps that is purgatory: idleness till eternity, Amen May the dead rest in peace we say, the unrest of our memory which knows it is too late to undo what has been done Perhaps that is life: being restless until death

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The fact is, only life exists, the beating hearts -- of birds in a swarm.

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Oct 10, 2025

Oct 10, 2025 at 4:05 AM UTC

[ The fact is, only ]

The fact is, only life exists, the beating hearts -- of birds in a swarm.

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a life reflected in my tear— feels like a whole ocean held in glass, _shattering_ as it dries across my cheek, breath breaking shallow, thoughts spilling faster than my lungs can keep. and just when I reach for life, it drags back— almost like smoke on a cigarette: each inhale a promise, each exhale a quiet theft. so time bites like an apple, sweet at first taste, but rotting me slowly down to the core. wait... I found the colour of prayer in the grass, my knees pressed low until the earth became an altar. to bend is to grow, to kneel is to root— but the more I chase what isn’t mine, the more pieces of myself scatter like loose change, spent out on illusions. so I pack away the versions of me— drawers filled with colours, some bruised like dusk, some bright as flame; stitched together, I am still made of light, even if the lamp inside me flickers. and by the lovely darkness— my contradiction, my just cathedral— know my soul will ignite in an instant, even if the tunnel stretches endless. because it is darkness itself that makes light _Undeniable_.

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Oct 5, 2025

Oct 5, 2025 at 5:27 AM UTC

The Colour of Prayer

a life reflected in my tear— feels like a whole ocean held in glass, _shattering_ as it dries across my cheek, breath breaking shallow, thoughts spilling faster than my lungs can keep. and just when I reach for life, it drags back— almost like smoke on a cigarette: each inhale a promise, each exhale a quiet theft. so time bites like an apple, sweet at first taste, but rotting me slowly down to the core. wait... I found the colour of prayer in the grass, my knees pressed low until the earth became an altar. to bend is to grow, to kneel is to root— but the more I chase what isn’t mine, the more pieces of myself scatter like loose change, spent out on illusions. so I pack away the versions of me— drawers filled with colours, some bruised like dusk, some bright as flame; stitched together, I am still made of light, even if the lamp inside me flickers. and by the lovely darkness— my contradiction, my just cathedral— know my soul will ignite in an instant, even if the tunnel stretches endless. because it is darkness itself that makes light _Undeniable_.

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Life is the greatest killer of all. Cancer. Sickness. ****** Wellness to illness, function to dysfunction: Two sides of the same coin toss. The greatest civil rebellion lasted 122 years, give or take, yet In all the struggle few realize that the true oppressor Is always enslaved to a certain animal within. Our ancestors die, our rivals die, our sisters die, We've been choosing death all along. Look at our blood: from tree to house to ash And mammal to mammal to dirt to memory. All things before the sun, that great heap of ****** Will have the color drained from them. The great white is an event Of the great blackness. And when it explodes . . . And there's a lesson to be told here, Call it 1.1. There is a lucky infinity Of the few who, unlike us, life Didn't take them, and there is a growing infinity Of us the many who death will take. I fear That there will be a great war To ruin the eternities that dot the night skies, The Olympians. I fear a great war Where infinite darkness both ways Will finally collapse - And us in the middle, the living, This star chained away By space and time and The magnificence of its light, Breathing away every last drop - Will fail, And the big black bang will stretch out in both ways As a final **** you to existence. And that'll be the end of it.

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Sep 21, 2025

Sep 21, 2025 at 4:25 PM UTC

The fear, the life, and the death

Life is the greatest killer of all. Cancer. Sickness. ****** Wellness to illness, function to dysfunction: Two sides of the same coin toss. The greatest civil rebellion lasted 122 years, give or take, yet In all the struggle few realize that the true oppressor Is always enslaved to a certain animal within. Our ancestors die, our rivals die, our sisters die, We've been choosing death all along. Look at our blood: from tree to house to ash And mammal to mammal to dirt to memory. All things before the sun, that great heap of ****** Will have the color drained from them. The great white is an event Of the great blackness. And when it explodes . . . And there's a lesson to be told here, Call it 1.1. There is a lucky infinity Of the few who, unlike us, life Didn't take them, and there is a growing infinity Of us the many who death will take. I fear That there will be a great war To ruin the eternities that dot the night skies, The Olympians. I fear a great war Where infinite darkness both ways Will finally collapse - And us in the middle, the living, This star chained away By space and time and The magnificence of its light, Breathing away every last drop - Will fail, And the big black bang will stretch out in both ways As a final **** you to existence. And that'll be the end of it.

Continue reading...

I didn’t pay heaven’s worth for one hell of a ride— for all the Valentine cards, I’m just calling their bluff. What’s carved into stone is too heavy to skip across the rivers of my chest; love sinks deeper than it pretends to float. A carousel of emotions spins; all its horses in place— some only love _horsing around._ Round and round it goes; the painted smile, waiting for the cycle to end, for the spell of tomorrow to break. So I write letters to the future, hopes tangled in snares of my doubts. The tongue—sharp as steel, soft as silk—knows how to give life, and how to **** We cover scars with scars, as the extending arm, just to say we’re armed, clutching too many guns inside our ribs. But how can blessings hold on when your hands stay hidden, when you wear a balaclava over your smile? Harvest comes only from what you’ve planted—patience, honesty, or silence. Soil on the tongue buries every word that could have fed us. So tell me—was heaven’s worth ever meant for one hell of a ride?

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Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 4:08 PM UTC

One Hell of a Ride

I didn’t pay heaven’s worth for one hell of a ride— for all the Valentine cards, I’m just calling their bluff. What’s carved into stone is too heavy to skip across the rivers of my chest; love sinks deeper than it pretends to float. A carousel of emotions spins; all its horses in place— some only love _horsing around._ Round and round it goes; the painted smile, waiting for the cycle to end, for the spell of tomorrow to break. So I write letters to the future, hopes tangled in snares of my doubts. The tongue—sharp as steel, soft as silk—knows how to give life, and how to **** We cover scars with scars, as the extending arm, just to say we’re armed, clutching too many guns inside our ribs. But how can blessings hold on when your hands stay hidden, when you wear a balaclava over your smile? Harvest comes only from what you’ve planted—patience, honesty, or silence. Soil on the tongue buries every word that could have fed us. So tell me—was heaven’s worth ever meant for one hell of a ride?

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My breath, light as feather, words like dust—find it best not to speak too much, lest I seem soft as a feather duster. Dreams of a perfect body, shadowed by many premonitions, permissions granted only by the mountains where I took life by the heel—miswriting heal, and climbing that endless hill toward closure. I saw a fish in a teardrop, a sad smile crossing its face; and it weighed the world on its scales. The river’s currents glistened with depression— so I pushed upstream, crying a mountain’s worth of water. I fought not to wash myself away, lying beneath it all, while an angel kissed my twisted hair; locked my thoughts in place. Perfectly ready to die, dancing to a song of reoccurring suicide, a melody only I could hear. Must entail the full act of dying, feel the strings beneath your fingers— chords played in secret, as if David himself taught me the strum. To be an instrument to a horn, to hone your skills, to feel like a big man someday. Think of this the next time someone says, “Yeah, I’m okay.” So much hidden, beneath that quiet syllable, an entire ocean of grief swallowed in one breath.

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Aug 31, 2025

Aug 31, 2025 at 2:37 PM UTC

Breath as Feather

My breath, light as feather, words like dust—find it best not to speak too much, lest I seem soft as a feather duster. Dreams of a perfect body, shadowed by many premonitions, permissions granted only by the mountains where I took life by the heel—miswriting heal, and climbing that endless hill toward closure. I saw a fish in a teardrop, a sad smile crossing its face; and it weighed the world on its scales. The river’s currents glistened with depression— so I pushed upstream, crying a mountain’s worth of water. I fought not to wash myself away, lying beneath it all, while an angel kissed my twisted hair; locked my thoughts in place. Perfectly ready to die, dancing to a song of reoccurring suicide, a melody only I could hear. Must entail the full act of dying, feel the strings beneath your fingers— chords played in secret, as if David himself taught me the strum. To be an instrument to a horn, to hone your skills, to feel like a big man someday. Think of this the next time someone says, “Yeah, I’m okay.” So much hidden, beneath that quiet syllable, an entire ocean of grief swallowed in one breath.

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_Life is a wonder_ —no wonder I still wonder how I made it to today. Life is what you make of it — not like a butler who serves, but a self-made shape you forge from struggle and grace. We judge with our eyes, but on Judgment Day, it won’t be our eyes that matter. And when that day arrives —whether we walk or run to heaven’s gate — know that love won't wear the form you tried to fit into every heart. To love in part means sometimes we must depart — leave behind space wide enough for stars to breathe. The emptiness you find may feel vague, but it’s where meaning stirs quietly, and the hopes you laid on a lover might be the very hope that led you astray. We leave this place as ashes — but never to rest in an ashtray. Because even dust has destiny, and fire never forgets what it once warmed. _Life is a wonder_ — in both a good and bad way. And maybe that’s enough.

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Jul 26, 2025

Jul 26, 2025 at 2:08 PM UTC

Life is a Wonder

_Life is a wonder_ —no wonder I still wonder how I made it to today. Life is what you make of it — not like a butler who serves, but a self-made shape you forge from struggle and grace. We judge with our eyes, but on Judgment Day, it won’t be our eyes that matter. And when that day arrives —whether we walk or run to heaven’s gate — know that love won't wear the form you tried to fit into every heart. To love in part means sometimes we must depart — leave behind space wide enough for stars to breathe. The emptiness you find may feel vague, but it’s where meaning stirs quietly, and the hopes you laid on a lover might be the very hope that led you astray. We leave this place as ashes — but never to rest in an ashtray. Because even dust has destiny, and fire never forgets what it once warmed. _Life is a wonder_ — in both a good and bad way. And maybe that’s enough.

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__Tragedy never seems to run out;__ a cat runs through traffic — and unfortunately, it finally ran out of lives.

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Jul 16, 2025

Jul 16, 2025 at 8:01 AM UTC

Nine Lives Later

__Tragedy never seems to run out;__ a cat runs through traffic — and unfortunately, it finally ran out of lives.

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"O, you who march toward hell, embrace death—it is your only chance to escape alive. Oh, you are oblivious to hope, beware—you stand on the brink of losing it forever. Oh, you lingering at the edges of oblivion, existence is no game of hide-and-seek—find yourselves before you vanish. You who arrive here know you are already among the departed. Calm your fears, for the worst has yet to come. O, you who weep for the past, dry your tears. The past was once the present, but the future… the future will never be."

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May 22, 2025

May 22, 2025 at 7:27 PM UTC

Ode to the Lost Souls

"O, you who march toward hell, embrace death—it is your only chance to escape alive. Oh, you are oblivious to hope, beware—you stand on the brink of losing it forever. Oh, you lingering at the edges of oblivion, existence is no game of hide-and-seek—find yourselves before you vanish. You who arrive here know you are already among the departed. Calm your fears, for the worst has yet to come. O, you who weep for the past, dry your tears. The past was once the present, but the future… the future will never be."

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“At the end of life, when the final breath escapes, everything we chased loses meaning. A single breath takes a lifetime to release—yet still, I wonder: how many breaths must be drawn and lost before we truly grasp the values that matter in this world?”

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May 19, 2025

May 19, 2025 at 5:59 AM UTC

“The Life That Brings a Last Breath”

“At the end of life, when the final breath escapes, everything we chased loses meaning. A single breath takes a lifetime to release—yet still, I wonder: how many breaths must be drawn and lost before we truly grasp the values that matter in this world?”

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Do you not think about it the thing we fear the most Same way we will all end and have a string around our toe Or is it just me wondering about something I really can not help Something so honest but so hurtful to accept Did it ever cross your mind How soothing religion is to believe Yet everyone still has that fear at the end, because life isn't at all what it seems You can only speak now What you feel and what you know But how certain are you of the place you end up when it's really time to go They say give it to God and I did And he gave the thoughts back If hell wasn't such the curse Would our good deeds still be an act If you knew there was nothing at the end Would you share that and instill fear Or would you put your loved one's heart and mind at peace, if you told them what they wanted to hear In no way am I saying there is no super being There's a whole wide world So, God isn't what I'm questioning What if we're supposed to just feel the right now And feel all the moments Just to say it has happened Is that what the Lord only wanted Life is a celebration The poor suffer through, and the rich take a toast But how can you be obsessed with something you fear the most?

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May 1, 2025

May 1, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC

Do you not think about it the thing we fear the most Same way we will all end and have a string around our toe Or is it just me wondering about something I really can not help Something so honest but so hurtful to accept Did it ever cross your mind How soothing religion is to believe Yet everyone still has that fear at the end, because life isn't at all what it seems You can only speak now What you feel and what you know But how certain are you of the place you end up when it's really time to go They say give it to God and I did And he gave the thoughts back If hell wasn't such the curse Would our good deeds still be an act If you knew there was nothing at the end Would you share that and instill fear Or would you put your loved one's heart and mind at peace, if you told them what they wanted to hear In no way am I saying there is no super being There's a whole wide world So, God isn't what I'm questioning What if we're supposed to just feel the right now And feel all the moments Just to say it has happened Is that what the Lord only wanted Life is a celebration The poor suffer through, and the rich take a toast But how can you be obsessed with something you fear the most?

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Death is put away, or it is lost, forgotten -- again and again.

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Mar 28, 2025

Mar 28, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC

[ Death is put away ]

Death is put away, or it is lost, forgotten -- again and again.

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Two souls have come together, two magical beings. What does the universe want, to stir such a commotion? Everything will be allowed, when their time arrives. Perhaps they are not the only ones protecting themselves. Perhaps beings from beyond are shielding them too. For they share the same fears, and all will unfold in the earthly realm, when they choose. They were everything, they were nothing. Everything was mystical, fire, and air. They moved from the battle of life to the refuge of disaster. Only souls, finally found. They were the dream they never dreamed, but that the universe had already decreed.

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Mar 8, 2025

Mar 8, 2025 at 2:05 PM UTC

Two souls have come together, two magical beings. What does the universe want, to stir such a commotion? Everything will be allowed, when their time arrives. Perhaps they are not the only ones protecting themselves. Perhaps beings from beyond are shielding them too. For they share the same fears, and all will unfold in the earthly realm, when they choose. They were everything, they were nothing. Everything was mystical, fire, and air. They moved from the battle of life to the refuge of disaster. Only souls, finally found. They were the dream they never dreamed, but that the universe had already decreed.

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death is humble; death does not discriminate; death is everything, but life.

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Jan 12, 2025

Jan 12, 2025 at 11:58 PM UTC

an ode to death

death is humble; death does not discriminate; death is everything, but life.

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In the graveyard silence reigns Darkness all around And loved ones Memories linger never gone And your all in our hearts All day long And the grass grows wild Between the graves sadness In my eyes as the Names etched in stone faded with age A reminder of life's final stage And the moonlight casts A ghostly glow over the graveyard tonight For in death there is a stark reminder To cherish each precious moment we are given so God bless you all.

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Oct 6, 2024

Oct 6, 2024 at 3:53 AM UTC

david-p-carroll

In The Graveyard

In the graveyard silence reigns Darkness all around And loved ones Memories linger never gone And your all in our hearts All day long And the grass grows wild Between the graves sadness In my eyes as the Names etched in stone faded with age A reminder of life's final stage And the moonlight casts A ghostly glow over the graveyard tonight For in death there is a stark reminder To cherish each precious moment we are given so God bless you all.

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Dying means little without fantasy, else it's -- about everything.

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Dec 2, 2023

Dec 2, 2023 at 3:47 AM UTC

[ Dying means little ]

Dying means little without fantasy, else it's -- about everything.

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The Friesian horses, stepping in black cloths with hoods -- and snorting with life.

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Jan 4, 2023

Jan 4, 2023 at 4:02 AM UTC

[ The Friesian horses ]

The Friesian horses, stepping in black cloths with hoods -- and snorting with life.

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No age no age at all never a justification a reason to placate us just an implacable, non-negotiable theft of love, histories and too much still to be the solace, a skinflint’s compensation, is that for a short while you had them and they had you and that was life but that’s as much as you get to try to make it through

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Sep 5, 2021

Sep 5, 2021 at 12:03 PM UTC

No age no age at all never a justification a reason to placate us just an implacable, non-negotiable theft of love, histories and too much still to be the solace, a skinflint’s compensation, is that for a short while you had them and they had you and that was life but that’s as much as you get to try to make it through

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• • • And I wonder who's luckier — the living hoping for his death or the dead wishing for another breath? • • •

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Oct 9, 2020

Oct 9, 2020 at 8:01 PM UTC

heyitsmymindagain

• • • And I wonder who's luckier — the living hoping for his death or the dead wishing for another breath? • • •

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When you are smiling in your dreams. I am here crying myself to sleep. When you are having a good laugh. I am here practicing a smile to hide my scars. When you are enjoying your day. I am here wanting the memories of you to go away. When you are having fun and getting wild. I am here cooped up in my bed loosing my mind. When you are there experiencing. I am here regretting. When you are having the time of your life. I am laying here wanting to end mine.

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Oct 1, 2020

Oct 1, 2020 at 6:42 AM UTC

When you are smiling in your dreams. I am here crying myself to sleep. When you are having a good laugh. I am here practicing a smile to hide my scars. When you are enjoying your day. I am here wanting the memories of you to go away. When you are having fun and getting wild. I am here cooped up in my bed loosing my mind. When you are there experiencing. I am here regretting. When you are having the time of your life. I am laying here wanting to end mine.

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if I were the Scar to your Mufasa, then I'd re-write that whole disaster and be th' one to go to th' hereafter, for you, I gladly opt to be the martyr

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Aug 12, 2020

Aug 12, 2020 at 10:14 PM UTC

if I were the Scar to your Mufasa, then I'd re-write that whole disaster and be th' one to go to th' hereafter, for you, I gladly opt to be the martyr

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