I’ve pressed you like a flower
In the pages of my mind
Wax paper sealed with sorrow
Creases wrinkled, worn with time
I’ve dried you like a bouquet
Bound my heart and marked the date
Fragile chambers frail with age
Remind my soul of my own fate
STRESSED ABOUT DEATH
Death, I think about it constantly and it terrifies me like nothing else. I have sinned so much; I would understand if the lord sent me to the pits of hell for the things I have done. Perhaps, he would forgive me, because he knows my heart and sees I’m just an innocent soul that allowed myself to be persuaded by wrong things? I would love to go to heaven and live in peace for the rest of my afterlife with Jesus and his angels, and death is the only way. I am willing to change just to be sure if I die I will be going to a better place instead of stressing about burning in hell.
You must be deaf.
"What? Huh? Say that again. "
You must be deaf
By the way you act.
"Speak up young fellow
I'm a little hard of hearing."
I said you must be DEATH !
"Ah. Yes. I am DEATH.
And I'm here for you young man."
It was a sweltering day in July when Heinrich was to be hanged. There was a large crowd as usual for spectacles like this. He searched the crowd for his love, Nicolette, a Countess, an alabaster goddess brought to life, with dark red curls like wine that sprung from her head and cascaded deliciously to her shoulders and her breasts.
She once had given him her ring as a symbol of her love, and he in turn had sworn to her his life and to serve her only. They would often meet at dusk under the linden trees to kiss. The nightingale was their only witness as it perched itself in the branches above and sang its lovers‘ song for just the two of them. Then one day they were caught holding hands by a servant to the Count. Heinrich was imprisoned, thrown into a darkened world of stone and iron from where he lamented at not knowing what became of Nicolette.
His attention fell on a blonde-haired boy with a mucus covered face. The boy looked directly at him while singing merrily through the din, a song the monks used to teach music to the peasant brood. The nitwit is a fool! He thought. But no more than I. And yet a fool for love is greater than the wisest with no knowledge of it. My love for Nicolette is worthy of my death, and I would die a thousand times if while I lived I could spend my nights drawing in her breath with every one of mine while we kissed under the linden tree.
At that moment he heard the order given and he was pulled off the ground by his neck. The noose burned hot like kiln stone as it ripped into his flesh. He flailed about for several moments until exhausted; then death, cumbrous and cold, crept up from his toes and fingertips. Slowly, it enveloped him. He felt its claws pierce his lungs then his heart, and draw a cloak of shifting colors down before his eyes. Gold like the sun. Red like the wine. Green like the field. Blue like the sky. Then all was black. Like the night when the nightingale had sung.
#literature #fiction #microfiction #tragedy #challenges #death
Death does not affect the dying,
Each person alive, eventually knows.
All death does is hurt the living,
Them that feel the pain, it grows;
Hoping to someday, never grieve again.
What He said to me (repost)
in this world
from this world
from the void
“Come. It is time.”
I am afraid of death. Heaven or hell? In between? Maybe. Devil? God? Jesus? Angels? Maybe. We may never know until we go.
A Letter to Death,
You cause sleep in your wake.
You leave us full of regrets and 'what-if’s'
Like, “Maybe if they hadn’t let them play outside…”
Or, “Should they have gone with him that night?”
Or, “I could have been just a bit more careful…”
Or, “If only this or that…”
You make us want to rewind time.
But, since we can’t, you make us curl up and cry, wishing to wake from the never-ending nightmare until we realize that there is actually absolutely nothing we can do.
Life goes on. You are inevitable.
Appearing again and again. Taking everyone around us one by one.
And, after we bury the bodies, or let them burn,
we can only pray the same isn’t happening to their souls.
Your coming is dreaded, but your ending is near.
You will be defeated in due time.
Mark my words.
Death, so often romanticized, is ugly when met.
Like all the best judges, it is objectively set.
All that we leave are echoes of our past
That cause pain to those that hear them and won't let them rest.
The cause, the hope and the peaceful rest.
All are lies, meant to subdue those of us that are left.
The only truth is the reality,
That without you in it, we all detest
It appears my favorite place has died, but such is life. Though, I noew get the feeling this is what happens in a group chat when you mute it come back a couple days later to thousands of messages. One of my favorite Prosers is gone and I do not know why nor do I want to go back and find out. I guess I didn't know him that well, but I liked is work and it makes me sad. I know it happens all the time - life, family, romances, pulling one away from the things they love and them leaving, but still. Looking back at all the posts from years ago, this place feels like a ghost town I am coming back to. Everything is regrowing but it's hard to not look at the ash and charred remains and wonder what happened and why I didn't stick around to see what's going on.