#forgotten poem

[peace-and-light-poetry]

"I don't envy your fate."

Her grandmother made her dread Dread existing, aging Seemingly, a life wasted

For all she knew, she wouldn’t live that long But she certainly didn't envy her grandmother's fate No, she'd much rather die

Grandma came from and lived in Utter dysfunction

She looked at her Wondering if she was cursed To the same fate

If she was, then she'd much rather die young Than to grow as old as her grandmother As such would be worse

Worse than dying

No, she'd much rather die young Than to endure her grandmother's fate

She already lived in dysfunction And dysfunction was bound to her Like a lead-iron chain

No, she lived in a different time Dysfunction dominated her existence But she'd be damned

If she became like her grandmother

No, she'd pray for a shorter life She could do things much differently Yet, she felt the weight of her chains

She pitied her, really Grandma mostly knew dysfunction Grandma couldn't break free

If this is what aging was, Then she'd curse it

She knew she wouldn't live forever But she didn't envy Grandmother's fate If anything.

[icara-mack]

happy 25th birthday techno, not a day goes by where the world doesn’t miss you. o7 rest in power

I’ve heard of a sky with a thousand suns

Just beyond a veil.

I’m told the wonder’s beyond reproach

And our world - but a mirror - seems pale.

You left to see those thousand suns

That cast the heaven’s light.

There are no shadows in that world, just endless sunlit skies.

So when my star grows old and pale

And burns out like a lamp

I’ll join you in that land of suns and see you once again.

Here are the closeups, tumblr did in fact eat the original lmao

[earthymama95]

"Nature will weave its own tales from the pages we leave behind."

-Earthy Mama

[usefulquotes7]

If you're constantly trying to prove your worth, you have already forgotten your value.

[flowercrowngods]

The Last Day.

Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.

So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.

The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.

But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.

Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.

It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.

The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.

Or maybe they’re the same feeling.

Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.

He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.

Michael Bruce

He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.

He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.

Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm. I walked, attendant on the funeral Of an old swain : around, the village crowd Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house, For all that live, appointed. To the dust We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.

Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.

To the dust We gave the dead.

The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.

Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just—

A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale, And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood : While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd, And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore. All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.

Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.

“Steve?”

“Robbie?”

“You… You better come see this.”

He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.

He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.

Terror in every look, and pale affright Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past, And for the future trembling.

Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.

Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.

[sassywiththesas]

I don't ask for a lot...Just to be remembered...

[somedsy]

Oh to cut my own apples, and feel so proud of my skill and independence so early in life.

That is, until I see my mother cutting an apple for my younger sister, years past the age when I learned to do it for myself.

[vampiric-prose]

I’ve forgotten how to live.

In the midst of the tears and shallow, empty breaths I have become I have forgotten what it is to live.

I have forgotten how to greet the day with an empty head and a subdued heart,

With a low, deep flow of blood that neither boils nor freezes,

With eyes that will not tremble and weep at the mere promise of tomorrow

Or the day after.

Oh,

I have forgotten how to live,

But I was never taught how to die.

I was not raised with an innate,

Inane,

Fear of a god who created me, loved me, knew me and slipped into my sinner’s soul.

I was not taught who to greet at gates beyond this world,

Beyond my own mind and the human gates of my rib cage.

I was not promised a life after mine,

A world after mine,

Salvation after mine.

Yes,

I have forgotten how to live,

But to never know how to die,

To only have her decide and strangle me on terms not mine,

And to bring me to a home I won’t recognize,

Is a far more painful fate.

My life holds no faith,

But at least this misery and this burned film, a mocking documentary,

Is mine,

Of my own destructive volition.

I have ruined any memory of how to live,

But I was never, never taught how to die.

[sl8tersstuff]

I feel sick,

no,

I feel forgotten.

[heart-songs]

Love, you left something behind

I still have your touch

on my lips. You linger like a patch of sun sown into an August

afternoon, remind me I have known warmth. On my lips you hum

notes of orange and honey, tell me I have tasted home.

- Cora Finch

[peace-and-light-poetry]

Owls

Hoot, hoot, hoot They have such a round face and they only fly at Night

[crescentdreamss]

my longings burn me.

[usefulquotes7]

If you're constantly trying to prove your worth, you have already forgotten your value.

[rashomon-vu]

"Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!

Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed

Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep."

— "Adonais" , an elegy to John Keats by Percy Bysshe Shelley

[amiablesummer]

thinking about Snowdrops by Louise Glück

[thevarelse]

In My Island

In my island, I am always waiting for you

To come back to me

In my island, time stopped

On the day you left

I walk around after reading your letters

Tending to crops that never grow, never flourish

I am waiting for Thanksgiving, perhaps next year

To harvest and dine with you