"colosseum" poems
I'm tired of this death match
fighting for my place
amongst the scattered remains
of a
thousand
broken hearts
This is not Sparta
I am no gladiator
and you
are
no
prize
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
The snow drifts were
quite high, piling up into the
northern sky, burying
towns and trees and the poor souls who
had fallen asleep on the grass
and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes
left little kisses on their eyelids.
Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass
or spring
or sun
or summer
or birds.
There was only winter and snow.
And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of desolation and
s a n c t u a r y.
The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence.
And somehow, the halls always remained.
The blue halls.
Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni. Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky.
A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside.
Some say it's the doorway to heaven.
Others say it's the gates of hell.
And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture.
Others like myself.
"If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds.
" The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so."
We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me.
The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake.
The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known.
"It's the harmonica of the gods!"
Perhaps one of them
dropped it.
Perhaps it was a flaw in design.
Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind.
Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests.
And you are so beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 9:45 PM UTC
Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk.
In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing.
I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything.
I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in.
Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Nero kicks Vespasian
1
Nero plays the lyre
He’s Emperor
so all must admire
but Vespasian goes to sleep
so Nero exiles Vespasian
and poor Vespasian now minds the bees
*I am the Emperor
and all must admire
when I sing
or play the lyre
for I’m also a god...*
Time kicks Nero
2
But Nero goes to extremes
Rome burns, Nero kills
and soon events turn against him
and the Senate declares him
Enemy of the State
and Nero kills himself;
and the beekeeper Vespasian
through events played staccato by time
becomes Emperor Vespasian
and begins construction of the Colosseum
*And Emperors too die
and I think I’m dying
Hey - help me up
for an Emperor must die on his feet
And hey! you know what?
I think I too am becoming a god!*
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
Another gladiator fell
Watering the field in blood.
His head was sheathed,
He never cut through the net
That descended from the stands.
The iron-fisted trident
Brought thumbs up from the spectators
Indulging in the beer and nuts.
There are always some to be sacrificed
To placate the mob in the colosseum
Beneath the night lights on Mondays,
When Coke is the drink of victors,
And jerseys are sold to the trainees
Who now put on their spikes.
These are ours
Running headlong into the arena.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
To the people who don’t or won’t support me,
I don’t live in your solitary reality.
I see the world in an equal and just perspective,
It’s affective, connected, receptive, near-perfected.
So I’m not going to heed your advice,
I knew as soon as I saw her, what I think is right,
I’m going to do what I was put here to do,
I refuse to listen to you and your out-dated views.
You say you will go to the city in the sky,
Way up high in the clouds, after you die,
And you say people like me will go to H-E-L-L,
Then I’m glad I’m not near you and your homophobic smell.
Plus, sending me back to my warm, homely home,
Your cult will crumble like the Colosseum of Rome.
You see, Satan is known for destruction and death,
So if you decide to oppose me, you just took your last breath.
I would kiss her right now, make you feel icky and horrible,
I would hold her hand; remind her she is adorable.
I would mess up her short, dark hedgehog hair,
I would gently hold her face in two hands and stare.
We would poke our tongues out at you, and then grin evilly,
Then skip away, holding hands, eyes twinkling gleefully.
Me and her, we don’t give a flying hoot what you think,
You’re small, insignificant to us, gone in a blink.
Me and her, we don’t want or care for your opinion,
You’re just doing what you’ve been told, like a good lil’ minion.
You go do your thing, and we’ll go do ours,
We will look up and follow the brightly glowing stars.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Watching men defeat each other,
Like it's our own little Colosseum.
People pay to be up close,
To be with the winning team as they boast.
The women stand at the side,
Cheering for front line tide.
They will crash with the other team's wave,
Split the difference bets are made.
Body on body they battle each other,
Do they even know one and another?
Or do they just follow the coach's words,
"Push forward boys, make them hurl."
Game after game,
They do the same thing.
Win or lose,
They still get paid.
Paid the big bucks to put on a show,
Commercials roll on before you know.
Get you to buy, get you to watch,
Buy this ****** like Miss March.
Forty-Sixth battle same as all before.
Crowds will still cheer, the cheerleaders are all ******
Losers will ***** and the Referee always *****
These mindless men get paid the big bucks.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 6:12 PM UTC
i am numb.
this is the one place
i cannot bear to take you,
even though i am prepared
to go to hell with you,
i will not bring you here.
it is a bathroom.
any bathroom, really,
as long as there’s something
to lean over,
something to flush,
something to destroy
the moment the room is occupied.
it’s alright, though,
because there’s a whole world
out there for us,
with gorgeous architecture
and natural allure,
so let’s go there, instead.
yes, i’ll be out soon.
if you have the tickets,
we can go anywhere.
just give me twenty minutes
to make everything okay again,
and i’ll take you
to see the taj mahal,
the colosseum,
the broken ruins of rome.
but i can never take you here.
i’m sorry;
whatever metaphorical journey
you may have thought you were on
ends here.
it’s just not something i can bring you into.
this is mine.
and i’m calling this the end.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:41 PM UTC
I am a gladiator in the Roman Colosseum
when the lions are let loose
and I've been given a sword that's too small
to defend myself with
The people in the stands are laughing at me
Not one of them reaches down to pull me out
Because they put me here
They sent these lions to hunt me down
for the crimes I committed
They clap and cheer
Because to them it's a sport
watching me get torn apart
And I never thought I would be down in this pit
Because I once sat where they did
Jeering and clapping for convicts to pay their dues
But look where I am now
I am the gladiator in the Roman Colosseum
when the lions are let loose
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
August nights are deceptive
in almost every way.
Chivalry may only go so far
two blocks in the dark.
Pausing in natural progression
cross-legged pavement within a 70s orange halo
to pet the neighborhood cat and to measure
the circumstances of the crossroads.
To measure up the exhausted opponents
of the oldest colosseum.
your frown spoke only negations
betrayed by your truth-or-dare eyes.
whites revealing an ancient wound,
irises concealing an urgency
that spread to me on the sidewalk
like purple chalk on the driveway
Or tendrils of ink in water.
I watch the Janus of your being
oscillate like glass
afraid of breaking itself.
The mouth that denies
is the mouth that calls its own bluff
Renouncing its resolve all over
damp trembling skin and
the high of oxytocin.
I'll... I'll see you again tomorrow?
August nights are deceptive
in almost every way.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
don’t be defeatist
they say
as if i am not already worn to ruin
as if my fingers have not bled
all i am capable of bleeding
over their pristine paper sheets
just believe in yourself
they say
as if belief alone has ever offered salvation
as if i could will myself into being
as so many others wish they could with god
all you can do is your best
they say
but what if this is my best?
what if i am a husk of a human being
before i reach the age of 30
what if all my light was used up
in a voltage too high
squeezed out of me like a surge
in an electrical storm
what if my peak is behind me
looming above me like atlas
blotting out the sun
and leaving me to get swept up
in the wake of an overachiever
what if i am incapable of what you believed in me
because you pushed me too hard, for too long
because what you needed of me you needed immediately
you took me in your hands like goliath took his stone
wrung me out until i was bloodless
wrote out my worth and found your pen inkless before you’d reached the end
worth is relative
i say
now that i forced you to see your mistake
now that i am bedridden and useless and limp like a doll
now that my good days are not when i write 100 pages
but when i remember to drink water
when i remember to bathe and eat and wake before noon
as if all your pushing just wound me up like a coil
set me tight enough to regress unto the mean
i am doing my best
i say
now that i am barely capable of anything at all
now that the pedestal you put me on looked like a ledge
and you see it for what it was
now that it’s too late to walk back from the gallows
because i’ve already been hung like a ghost
and all i do these days is sway in the wind
i have been defeated
i say
but it was because you put me in the colosseum
with nothing but my tired self leaning on my tired self
and i lay on the floor waiting for the lions to come
i have been defeated
i say
to my defeatist self
because no one stays around to watch a losing fight.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
The fall of the
L'Heure Bleue,
the sweet lights, Brandenburg Gate,
awaiting human kisses,
a Midas touch,
kiss & tell
lipstick stains,
good girl gone bad,
Her,
heart & soul,
written,
in a silver,
streak,
of embellished ink
Each morning, crossing
horizons,
dawn to sunrise,
the photographers
'sweet light'
sunset to dusk
No full daylight, or
darkness,
sunlight only illuminating,
scattering skies
Paris, & Rome
the Colosseum, & the Eiffel Tower,
strike fire & flowers
This blue hour, shapeshifters
black Alexander **** &
Saint Laurent's elaphe snakeskin,
tainted pumps
The darker side, of
feminine mystique,
fire wood skies fade
Her,
ghost remains
She,
travels her own mind.
© Sia Jane
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Toss them into the pit!
That babbling **** who twitches
on the side of the local gas station,
who talks
as if he had company!
The girl with obvious scars
across her thighs and arms,
it's her fault for not seeking help;
she does this to herself!
Freak! who writes poetry
and speaks with words
that force me to pick up
effort and a dictionary!
***** he is not a man, not even to his
lover, he makes her feel respected and
on equal plane! he even fights
for gay rights, for the animals near-extinct!
Let the helpless and the helpful,
the hopeless and the hopeful
suffer, not by
each other,
but
by
themselves.
And we, with years of
practice, of
earned
ignorance
can enjoy the scene
from the tops of
our immoral high horses.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
with a couple words like Je T'aime I wasn't really
impressed with the way your tongue glided over
your lower lip or the way your eyes shot up like
fireworks on the Fourth of July, which reminded
me of the last time I met someone like you right by
the Colosseum: was I meant to be intertwined with a
historic love or have my heart coded with places I
wouldn't forget such as your arms during the morning
light when we are hidden under the sheets, hoping your
mother wouldn't come in her satin pink robe and sharp
tongue because she said she was too young to be a grandmother
(she said she loved the color of my eyes, brown like mine
were too rare to find) and for a moment, I believed her when she
said I should pack up my bags and find another city to fall in
love with because you'd drag me under the ground and make me
a ruin just the way your father did to her. It was hard to believe
the words springing from her blood, but I left a photograph of myself
in your pocket and ran to where my legs took me. In a matter of months, when I heard a couple of words like Te Amo, I knew it was to start again.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
*Then I start feeling
How it is like to live in a heaven
Being loved and kissed
In the days pass by and to the days come by*
*Then my feelings start singing
To a soft blue rhythm
Augmenting the aura brighter
Even more to thousand stars*
***Then myself start turning to yours
Harmonize the splendor of
Colosseum to the vintage days of Paris
' Mihiraviye...'
Days to days - Years to years
The time was beaten
By the sunshine of the spring
Happily everlasting***
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
I like to
kiss your
liquid
lovers
lips
dissolving sugar sweet majesty
your highness
kneeling to the
queen of
centuries
I live in first quarter of the moon
mixing tapes
to match
the rhythms of the maiden
with the
melodies of the mother
I will love you in secret
Of it, the state must not know Out, the fire must not blow
*do
not
let
them
burn
me
alive*
I promise
to keep
my commitments
cataloged and
separate my
chastity in one drawer
my sensuality in
another
I can be both
I can be both
I can live on as an empire
and exist as the city in ruin
I will bear the sword and
wear the heavy paws
in the belly of the Colosseum
I will sit on the balcony
bored and eating grapes
calling out
"Execution!"
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
I think I'm going to write a book
school shootings for dummies
just to **** people off
just so it could get banned
that way all of my other books
could be about fairies and flowers
and endless unconditional love
and people would buy them
"I want to read the school shooting guy's book"
because as much as people pretend to be P.C.
we're still in the Colosseum
screaming at the top of our lungs
for the blood splash catharsis
and we think we are so civilized
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
A plume should be a thing lovely and light
dancing violet as it's fanned
at the flanks of the blue
bird-of-paradise
who hangs limberly
to solicit a mate
It should curl
blinding white at the back
of the puffy Samoyed
prancing fancy to please a master
who also preens on the oval
of a sawdust track
It should flop
red at the top of gold-painted tin
helmet awry on the head
of an aspiring actor
who plays centurion for tips
outside a mobbed Colosseum
It should spray
as clear and cooling drops out
the copper mouth of a grass-snake
green hose uncoiled by
the sneaky dad who tickles
giggles from sweaty kids
It should flutter
gray at the tail end of a quill
bouncing to the frenzied
jottings of an anachronistic
frump who takes the pain to outfit
himself far too seriously
A plume should not be a thing of plague
riding currents kissed by taint-
sweet crude blasted from a wound
gouged in the crust
of a frigid deep to feed
our shallow lust for eases
It shouldn't choke
It shouldn't muck
It shouldn't tar
It can't help
poisoning that last pretense
we cared about anything,
be it plumed or not, but
the finality of
a bottom line
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
Wondrous Love
Our love is as solid as the ancient rocks Stonehenge
Strong and as long as the Golden Gate Bridge Extends
Romantic as the sparkling Aurora Borealis lights
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, held tight like stalactites
Our love can move Everest, make the Pisa tower lean
Spiritual and earnest, as Jerusalem's serene
Occasionally a fight in Rome's Colosseum
Woeful regrets laid bare in Tutankhamen's museum
Our love is impenetrable like the Great Wall of China
Shiny like the Pyramids, there is nothing finer
Deserving of a shrine at the foot of Temple Artemus
Polar Ice caps could never melt our ambient musk
Our love is higher than the Empire State can tower
A jewel within the crown of the Taj Mahal's power
Colourful as the Barrier Reef, the love we feel inside
Grander than the Canyon and deeper than it is wide
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
He is the Colosseum,
With high walls built up that have withstood centuries of harsh winds and violent storms.
He is looked upon with such admiration, this looming citadel of aestheticism, and is unmatched in any respect.
All who pass pay reverence to this fortress of great strength.
At first, navigating the Colosseum is a daunting task,
But as I started to wander down his narrow hallways and stroll past his looming arches,
I began to learn my way around and figure out just what it was that made him so magnificent.
And then, Thank the Deities,
I wandered upon the brilliant stadium of his heart.
But sadly I came to realize that behind his stable facade was a decaying sight, for his walls were crumbling on the inside.
The stones that were built to protect his fragile insides served a different purpose, to mock him of the storms that have hurt him in the past.
He was hidden behind this fortification and writhed in the cold darkness, alone and scared.
He was afraid to go out and fight, convinced that the violent storms outside that have battered him so, will surely come again.
I pity his soul, for having to take the time to put up each monstrous pillar, put down every concrete block, and fill every crack with cement.
He felt that this was necessary in order to be sure that no evil forces could hurt him ever again;
He was filled with hatred for the world because of what it had done to him.
But as a dedicated warrior, I musn't let him be scared any longer.
He has been gracious enough to let me into his life, into his amphitheater of a soul.
He is my Apollo, and I want to show him how beautiful the cosmos can be.
So I will be his gladiator, and fight for his name.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
Headphone to head
Music to Soul
Fills me up with a surge of compelling sensation
Musics a museum of emotion
A colosseum of expression
Taken back by its beauty,
It's a gallery of a never ending selection
Used to suppress the oppression
To repair the ones that can't bare
Music is a medicine that doesn't need to be prescribed
Side effects may cause healed hearts and better judgement
Music is fabulous
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
1.
we all know versions
of people
we all know blips-
flickering tv screens
with constantly changing channels
on to the next, one after another
maybe this show will feel right
maybe this genre will fit
unsatisfied by the plot
in this episode
unfamiliar with the characters
on the screen
the lighting in this room isn't
quite right
eyes flickering in candlelight
skipping over the horror channel
very quickly
trying to move on to the love scene
2.
you talk about my body
like it is a puzzle we have to finish
i'm waiting for you to realize
it is actually a dress that
will never fit anyone
but being a puzzle gives me
some time, so i let you
piece together the edges
you create a faceless outline and
call it a beautiful frame
for a piece of art you
don't quite understand
3.
but i will never be the basillica
and i am not an augustine
it's impossible to drink
the wine from my insides
without being poisoned by it's strength
we have been fermenting for a long time
and the bread does not break because
it had already been broken
into too many small crumbs
i wonder if you're still hungry
4.
and i think about our houses
both scattered with wooden bits
of the eiffel tower and taj mahal
big ben in the bureau by the wall
the colosseum in the middle
of the kitchen table
sydney opera house suspended
from the ceiling of the bedroom
monuments to so many bodies
we sure like putting them together
but it's hard to find storage space
when you're done
5.
you take pictures to remember
how proud you once were
or sometimes just to seal them in a frame
frozen in time so that the next time
you see them standing in the doorway
like a degenerate masterpiece
you can touch the photograph in your wallet
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
...Open your eyes, to me.
I want to spiral, around you,
beyond the dark, infinite wall.
I want to transcend, your physical;
to lure you on, and away
into a purple field, of Freyja's daisies
with nimble, metaphysical fingers--
beckoning beyond,
the starry curtain,
of crystalline dreams.
Will you let my arms,
circle your Roman neck,
like verdant vines
and pull you further, in?
Can you feel my smile,
sun the slant,
of your beloved cheek,
and can you photosynthesize
into new life, with me
even as you re-seed, in darkness?
I want to whisper,
sweet words:
devotion, and desire
into the well, of your ear...
until they roar, and pound
with the sacred force,
of white rapids...
swollen to riptides,
in the conch shell,
of your churning mind.
I want to weave, around your flesh
and speak, a love spell
into your shifting, Lycan eyes.
An incantation, that plays,
with the blue ghost, of your flame,
and ignites, the candle of your soul,
on its breathy sighs...
...melodic tones.
There is no heart,
quite like yours.
It pulses, beneath my hand,
like drums, of war.
Gladiator...
take me, to your Colosseum.
I want to wander
the upper echelon,
of its throbbing chambers.
I want to feel you ache, for me
in your left ventricle...
soft, warm flesh,
perfectly preserved, in golden amber.
I want to gaze,
into the blinding sun,
until my eyes, tear...
closer to heaven,
than ever I've been.
Darling, what do you see,
when you look at me?
Salvation,
or ruin?
Vikingr longships...
or Valhalla...?
I pray...that one day...
you will take my soft hand,
into the Titan strength, of yours,
and not perceive it,
as an instrument
in the ruin, and wreckage, of you.
I ardently pray, that, one day...
you'll come, to bathe
in the Baltic blue, of my eyes...
and never fear, again,
that they could drown you.
...Let me take you...home.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 2:22 PM UTC
think about how
we see ruins
as beautiful
like the
Acropolis or
the Colosseum
and Pompeii,
though they’ve spent
years and years
breaking,
crumbling,
disintegrating,
until all that’s left
are fragments of what it used to be
but we still see it today
with awe
and admire all of its glory
and i think maybe
it’s the same with people
it’s easy to fall in love with the remains
of something you did not see
fall apart first.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC