#poe

I know the place. It is true. Everything we do Corrects the space Between death and me And you. ↗

— Harold Pinter

#death

I touch you knowing we weren't born tomorrow, and somehow, each of us will help the other live, and somewhere, each of us must help the other die. ↗

— Adrienne Rich

#death-and-dying #love #poetry #death

It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning. For every one of us, living in this world means waiting for our end. Let whoever can win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark. ↗

— Seamus Heaney

#poetry #revenge #death

The red washing down the bathtub can't change the color of the sea at all. ↗

— Derrick C. Brown

#depression #poem #poetry #suicide #change

Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie: Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he long'd to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill. ↗

— Robert Louis Stevenson

#poetry #death

Life is too fleet for onomatopoeia. ↗

— Mervyn Peake

#fleet #funny #gormenghast #life #life-lessons

Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul, that soft summer morning round a turning in the path, the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones, its legs in the air like a woman in need burning its wedding poisons like a fountain with its rhythmic sobs, I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound, but I touch my body in vain to find the wound. I am the vampire of my own heart, one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughter who can no longer smile. Am I dead? I must be dead. ↗

— Charles Baudelaire

#death #horror #murder #poetry #primal-scene

And thus we all are nighing The truth we fear to know: Death will end our crying For friends that come and go. ↗

— Edwin Arlington Robinson

#death #friends #grief #loss #poetry

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. ↗

— Sylvia Plath

#light #night #poetry #stars #death

Blinded by the opaque veil of mortality, her eyes are always sealed, like a tomb She wants to know- wants to feel that fire, the brightness of the moon So she searches for light, only to realize its in her, like an ember equipped to ignite. ↗

— Jessica Sorensen

#death