Rose

I scream for you, but you do not hear me. Please don’t go. My words are simply lost to the wind.

love is everywhere. love is in the spice of pumpkin coffee on a chilly day, just the way you like it. love is in the sparkle in the eye of a person you care about. love is everywhere. it’s in the constellations of the stars above, or in the beams of sunlight streaming through a window. love is everywhere. it can be found, big and small as small as a grain of sand or as big as the sun up above our heads. i love you for you. (and by the way, i love your smile.)

i always knew that it would end this way. well, i didn't know how or why it would but i took a pretty good guess crossed my heart (hope to die) knock on wood, seven times. and yet. an expected ending isn’t quite always a good one. happily ever after, my dearest, is yet to come; will it ever?

What do you think it's like to die?

pull the plug, concluded. cease and scrap, happily ever after.

The loudest action of all was the one that was silent.

Or you’re everything and nothing. All or nothing. Too much and too little. Orange, Purple, Green. A mix of everything that makes you, well, you. You, Yourself.

Do you remember the day when you told me you’d never lie? That we’d always be honest. I do. I remember. But today I see you lie. I see it in the twitch of your fingers. the small flash of discontent, that I saw flick across your face. Today, I hear your lies, In the lift at the ends of your sentences that didn’t use to be there, You are not the same as yesterday. You may not remember that day, but I do.

It never meant anything to you. The off-hand comments, here and there. It mattered not what I thought. Or how I felt. You would forget all about it soon after. Like it never happened in the first place. I would brush it off, because it wasn’t that bad anyways. It’s not like it really did matter to anyone else. They say that sticks and stones break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Well, isn’t that just a lie? I’ve never been poked with sticks. I’ve never been pelted with stones. But I have been cut deep by what shouldn’t have. Those words, said long ago, Will never be forgotten.

fields of asphodel, never anything all that special. pick your flowers, wilt away, without meaning, or purpose.

The West Wind spreads the pollen of flowers, and it is fleeting. It comes quick, and leaves quicker, leaving nothing behind but a few scattered seeds.

die a hero, a martyr. a savior to others, and maybe yourself too. perfect happiness, divine favor. hesiod: untouched by sorrow, isles of the blessed. homer: achievable, beautiful meadow. vergil: home of the dead, poetry, singing, dancing. seneca: peaceful shades, groves of pious souls. die a hero, a martyr, and finally be happy.

the infernal regions- horrible region of torment and pain. worst of criminals, worst of life, worst in death. pits of gloom and despair, never will a laugh be heard here. lead astray, and into darkness.

of an eye i feel different than i did five minutes ago. what an unordinary day; isn’t it?

You’ll waste away, my dear, till you’re skin and bones. Do you want to be sent to the mourning fields? what are those? Oh, the mourning fields. My dear, it’s a place at the end. Unrequited till you die, skin and bones. Wasted away. over them? Yes. The mourning fields, my dear, are filled with unseen paths of grievances and sorrows, that seemingly follow you after you and they are both long gone. Dead flora and fauna, my dear, that’s what it’ll be like once you leave. Run, run away fast.