DESCRIPTION
Not quite sure why I wrote this. I just let my muse take control and saw what happened. Enjoy, I suppose. I can't describe it because I didn't write it. Read it yourself and see. [279 words]
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Hopeless at understanding my thoughts when and if I think them. [June 2000]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (2) Not Caring (Poetry) Three poems about three friends of mine. [297 words] The Dreamer, A Collection Of Poetry (Poetry) The Dreamer is about a suicidal who wishes the morning was obscure and nonexistent. Clash of the Titans is a review of religious ignorance. [242 words]
Whispering To Death Lewd Muse
When the night comes, we'll all forgive it. The darkness, after all, we hate. And what bonds one more than hatred? The moon might shine, but we won't notice it. We'll be too busy with such things as death and spirit to pay it any heed.
Listen to your death. It is imminent, like whatever God we pray to when we fear the night...when we fear our Death. All things imminent speak, for what boredom must imprison the inevitable. Maybe our Death is speaking in the darkness.
Maybe when we look past the shadows and into the light; past the moon and into the darkness; past the sight and into the blind; past the blind and into ourselves...what does the death say to you? Or does it? How can we hear the pathetic, idle chit-chat of Mary and Max, but we ignore a voice so grand?
Maybe because it whispers.
And when you die, where do you think you will go? A kingdom in the sky? A pit of fire? Or a coffin in which you will decay, eaten by the Conqueror Worm? You've ignored Death all your life, and now it speaks louder. Will you listen then?
Death, we can believe in. Death sends us a Messiah every day in the form of a bullet. There may very well be a hogher power, but he doesn't speak so loudly. But we listen more closely.
And when you rest in Heaven, tickled by butterfly wings, will you remember Abaddon? Your mother? He who brought you there? He who whispered into your ear every passing minute in the darkness as you ignored him but, on some level, waited his passing?
Or will you let him keep whispering?
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"I've reached a perfect medium of talent, it seems. A horizon. If it were crap, certainly a hungry enough critic would rip through it. If it were gold, some hopeful reader would doubtlessly review it praisefully. Since I've received no reviews, it is safe to say it is not crap and it is not gold, but it is a composite of the two." -- Lewd Muse.
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