ruthlessly provocative: memento mori
You need to do it sometimes,
or they will come haunting you,
which they certainly will do all the same,
so you just have to placate them,
but it's a healthy thing to do,
not just visiting corpses.
They are all around you
and never let you down,
swirling around you,
drowning you in dreams
and never leaving you alone,
just to remind you,
that you are dead also.
Your corpse is just a bloody carcass
signifying nothing
which one day will lie rottening
or reduced to cinders and dispersed,
while only your dreams will remain,
turning you into one of those corpses
to spiritually haunt the so called living
to never let them down,
since those are the only true friends
you ever are going to acquire:
the dead ones,
who never leave you alone.
My hair
My hair is my protection and my safety
behind which I hide and cover my feelings
that do not stand scrutiny or trifling with,
while with my hair I embalm my love
to protect and shelter it,
like a mother her child of frailty,
veiling it in a shroud of tenderest security,
and thus I keep it long and rich and warm
to hide my feelings and my privacy
and secure my universe of tenderness
to grow my love and expand it in my bosom
without anything to check its growth
and everlasting glorious expansion.
Thus I keep and warm my love for you
to ever be able to generously feed you with it
like a mother her beloved only child.
(read 74 times when saved here)
Poetry by Laila Roth
Read 576 times
Written on 2007-12-14 at 17:19
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Looking up the dead
You need to do it sometimes,
or they will come haunting you,
which they certainly will do all the same,
so you just have to placate them,
but it's a healthy thing to do,
not just visiting corpses.
They are all around you
and never let you down,
swirling around you,
drowning you in dreams
and never leaving you alone,
just to remind you,
that you are dead also.
Your corpse is just a bloody carcass
signifying nothing
which one day will lie rottening
or reduced to cinders and dispersed,
while only your dreams will remain,
turning you into one of those corpses
to spiritually haunt the so called living
to never let them down,
since those are the only true friends
you ever are going to acquire:
the dead ones,
who never leave you alone.
My hair
My hair is my protection and my safety
behind which I hide and cover my feelings
that do not stand scrutiny or trifling with,
while with my hair I embalm my love
to protect and shelter it,
like a mother her child of frailty,
veiling it in a shroud of tenderest security,
and thus I keep it long and rich and warm
to hide my feelings and my privacy
and secure my universe of tenderness
to grow my love and expand it in my bosom
without anything to check its growth
and everlasting glorious expansion.
Thus I keep and warm my love for you
to ever be able to generously feed you with it
like a mother her beloved only child.
(read 74 times when saved here)
Poetry by Laila Roth
Read 576 times
Written on 2007-12-14 at 17:19
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
