The Death of a Poet: Death the Last Chapter

December 3, 2014 3:16 PM

13 0

Our existence derives its meaning from use, for this reason a glass bellows when it is used even for mundane activities as opposed to a china set that is reserved for the grandest of balls. Seemingly important yet so impotent, a parody of life. For it cursed to accumulate dust, yearning for that special occasion when it will be used.

We are doomed to suffer death not but once, but a myriad times. Life is but a cycle, dotted with pleasantries and marred with sorrow, born with a whimper, the apple of our mother's affection yet we are damned to die but alone. Sans prized possesses, for all these are but meaningless, for who can boa...

Read more

To category page