Sapped in Time by NoltaN on DeviantArt

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Literature

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Life is neither fair nor unfair. It’s not the kind of thing “fairness” applies to. That would imply something, someone, anything were in charge, That there’s some kind of system or order to it all. No. Life simply is. Sometimes the good die young. Sometimes evil prevails. And sometimes, maybe most times, things happen without a reason. They simply are. We create meaning from suffering to give voice to our pain. There isn’t a thing of more terror than voiceless agony. So we believe in things like fate or destiny or God or karma To comfort ourselves like blankets and baubles to children. In the end, the anguish of a billion souls screams like Whispers in the infinite silence of the void. In the end, the torment of a billion lives shrieks like Shallow breaths in God’s ears. No one is listening. No one is out there. It’s just us. Whether you waste away in apathy, Or you shine on with all time’s glory, You cease just the same. All that you are, All that you’ve done, One day, Shall be no

Literature

Everything Ends

Everything ends. No matter your successes. No matter your failures. Everything ends. All the love you've ever had. It ends. All the pain you've ever endured. It ends. All the memories you hold dear. They end. It is not a mistake. It is not a tragedy. It is wisdom. Therefore, Be with your loved ones, Bury your grievances, And never, ever Be anyone but yourself. Because no matter what you do, No matter what you say, Time ticks. And everything that is Shall one day Be no more. Everything ends. Everything ends. Don't just make your Peace with it. Make your life with it. Do always what you must. Say always how you feel. And live always your way.

Literature

Life, the Riddle

After you live and before you die You must go and create your why. Why does the sun set red? Why does the moon glow white? And why does the ocean carry The echoes of forgotten dreams? Write your story before your book is shut You must go and define your what. What is the direction of wind? What is the heart of snow? And what is the fire whence All life came and all life must go? Be diligent and take the utmost of care You must go and discover your where. Where is curiosity's last stop? Where is love's last harbor? And where is the last time You see your loved ones? Figure out your spark and then You must go and determine your when. When does the world end? When did it begin? And when did you realize The world was a person? Arrange your affairs, no matter how few You must go and embrace your who. Who counted the stars of the night? Who named every grain of sand? And who lives in the mirror When no one is looking? It is not too late, do it now You must go and choose your how. How

PrRailgun

Literature

To Remember

We carry a lot on our shoulders lugging around the past as we go. There are lingering echos heard far off in the shroud of time that so hurt. Is it easy to romanticize days of gentle peace, yet would not do. Ghosts are not real to you or I, but the past is a truth that is rude. We are human in the end. Forget if you please, but I will remember. All is destined for finality to wilt away on vines once alive.

Literature

Melodramatic

Ah, inkless pen. Must we be here yet again? My paper feels so empty that time might blow this whim far and away. For these trials of heart and soul do weigh so heavy. Please! I beg you, pity the stress felt in these aching bones. No, no, I cannot go on. To write and, please, to dance with trees? Well, no matter! As you can see, my talent certainly has gone and fled. No more writing. Ah, no more words, indeed. Lie as you will. I know you will speak once again, you Fool.

Literature

Lost At Last

If I'm to be lost then stamp out this soul, let the remnant be burned falling away into a cinder and flame. Let the last of my heart, pound a beat to giveaway falling in flight, then crush me with your palm to kill me where I stand. If I was lost, forget me here by the stony grey edge and think of me as nothing, but that dream akin to myth. If the last of your heart hurts with such a pain, to twist into knots of a memory sweet thing. Remember I am to be lost, faded from your time as an echo out in mountainous space. Maybe, at some long-distant point, far out from this last date is where your aching pain may float away. On ever days of light that shine out, down upon your heart you sing of joyous delight, having lost my name.

FroggyArtDesigns

Literature

In Remembrance Of Winter

As I stand enveloped in the chilling embrace of the impending storm, I can distinctly sense the delicate flakes of snow descending from the tumultuous heavens above, each crystal shimmering ethereal before merging into a collective, silent blanketing of the earth below. This winter gale, laden with an oppressive sense of anticipation, seems to vibrate with an unspoken promise of transformation, as the very atmosphere thickens with the weight of the falling snow. Concurrently, I observe the once vibrant roses succumbing to the inexorable forces of nature, their petals, once full of life, now fading into a melancholic tableau of wilted hues, resembling the last gasp of summer's warmth before being consigned to the relentless march of winter. The verdant blades of grass, which only yesterday danced gracefully with the caress of the gentle breeze, lie dormant and lifeless now, stilled in their growth and robbed of their lush vibrancy by the frigid tendrils of cold that creep across the landscape. A profound stillness envelops the scene, casting a shroud of darkness over the world, as if nature itself has drawn a curtain to shield us from the cacophony of life that once thrived in these surroundings. In this momentary cessation of rhythmic existence, where even the breath of the wind seems to hold its tongue, I become acutely aware of the singular, most intimate sound that permeates the silence the relentless throbbing of my heart, which beats in a measured cadence that echoes the tumultuous emotions swirling within me, a stark reminder of the fire of life that still resides within, contrasting sharply with the frigid desolation that surrounds me.

Literature

Tapestry Of Burdens

Amidst the delicate tapestry woven from the scarlet petals of roses, their fragrance mingling with the acrid scent of decay, and beneath the omnipresent shadow of the nocturnal bats that flit silently through the obsidian sky, there lies, ensconced in the poignant solitude of my thoughts, a heart burdened yet resolute. This heart, once vibrant and pulsating with fervent life, now rests upon the shoreline of desolation, encased in the cold, unyielding embrace of a watery sepulcher a tomb not of granite and marble, but of memories and lost dreams, submerged beneath the relentless tide of time and sorrow. As the ceaseless waves of the ocean, industrious and untamed, rage ferociously against the jagged rocks, cascading droplets of brine and despair upon the parched earth, I perceive the tumultuous symphony of nature itself a profound resonance with the anguished strains of my own existence. Each rhythmic crash reverberates through the very marrow of my being, echoing the tumult within my breast. Time, that insidious specter, unfolds incessantly, unraveling the gossamer threads of days gone by, permitting the cold fingers of nostalgia to caress the tender sinews of my heart, which, though encased in sorrow, yet beats a solitary heart, tenderized by the ravages of loss and longing. Oh, how the ocean, in its ceaselessness, weaves itself into the fabric of my lamentations! Each gentle whisper of the breeze carries forth the haunting echoes of laughter long abandoned, of promises unfulfilled, and of the unrealized reveries that once sparkled brightly amidst the dusk. Here, upon this desolate shoreline, where land meets sea and hope meets despair, I find myself lost in a reverie of melancholic introspection, caught in the treacherous undertow of reminiscence that both nourishes and starves the flickering flame of my spirit. Yet, it is here, amid the rotting remains of cherished moments and the mournful flutters of the winged creatures that herald the encroaching darkness, that I draw breath. My heart, though tender and bruised, remains resilient an indomitable entity that perseveres against the unforgiving torrents of fate. It persists in its silent lamentation, an elegy for all that was and all that may never again be that which was tendered by the ephemeral nature of existence, now interred in the deep, unfathomable depths of this aqueous grave. And still, as the relentless ocean rages forth unceasingly a majestic embodiment of the myriad of emotions that swell like the tides I am reminded that though my heart may lie in despondence, it beats still, a threnody to what once was, an unwavering testament to that which endures.

Literature

From The Heart Of A Gothic Poet

Silence, poverty of words and a poet's death. The black unfolds me, though the current is silent and heavy. It last only one moment before the moon bows and we say farewell. And we become the stars playing the dusty stage of passing time and lost playwrights are only a whisper left in our ears tickling our minds. Aw, I the poet set fires within your minds and ignite your imagination with my Gothic preposition. From a poet's heart, that like a seed I bloom, for thy love hydrates me and helps me plot my poetry.

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Literature

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Life is neither fair nor unfair. It’s not the kind of thing “fairness” applies to. That would imply something, someone, anything were in charge, That there’s some kind of system or order to it all. No. Life simply is. Sometimes the good die young. Sometimes evil prevails. And sometimes, maybe most times, things happen without a reason. They simply are. We create meaning from suffering to give voice to our pain. There isn’t a thing of more terror than voiceless agony. So we believe in things like fate or destiny or God or karma To comfort ourselves like blankets and baubles to children. In the end, the anguish of a billion souls screams like Whispers in the infinite silence of the void. In the end, the torment of a billion lives shrieks like Shallow breaths in God’s ears. No one is listening. No one is out there. It’s just us. Whether you waste away in apathy, Or you shine on with all time’s glory, You cease just the same. All that you are, All that you’ve done, One day, Shall be no

Literature

Everything Ends

Everything ends. No matter your successes. No matter your failures. Everything ends. All the love you've ever had. It ends. All the pain you've ever endured. It ends. All the memories you hold dear. They end. It is not a mistake. It is not a tragedy. It is wisdom. Therefore, Be with your loved ones, Bury your grievances, And never, ever Be anyone but yourself. Because no matter what you do, No matter what you say, Time ticks. And everything that is Shall one day Be no more. Everything ends. Everything ends. Don't just make your Peace with it. Make your life with it. Do always what you must. Say always how you feel. And live always your way.

Literature

Life, the Riddle

After you live and before you die You must go and create your why. Why does the sun set red? Why does the moon glow white? And why does the ocean carry The echoes of forgotten dreams? Write your story before your book is shut You must go and define your what. What is the direction of wind? What is the heart of snow? And what is the fire whence All life came and all life must go? Be diligent and take the utmost of care You must go and discover your where. Where is curiosity's last stop? Where is love's last harbor? And where is the last time You see your loved ones? Figure out your spark and then You must go and determine your when. When does the world end? When did it begin? And when did you realize The world was a person? Arrange your affairs, no matter how few You must go and embrace your who. Who counted the stars of the night? Who named every grain of sand? And who lives in the mirror When no one is looking? It is not too late, do it now You must go and choose your how. How

PrRailgun

Literature

To Remember

We carry a lot on our shoulders lugging around the past as we go. There are lingering echos heard far off in the shroud of time that so hurt. Is it easy to romanticize days of gentle peace, yet would not do. Ghosts are not real to you or I, but the past is a truth that is rude. We are human in the end. Forget if you please, but I will remember. All is destined for finality to wilt away on vines once alive.

Literature

Melodramatic

Ah, inkless pen. Must we be here yet again? My paper feels so empty that time might blow this whim far and away. For these trials of heart and soul do weigh so heavy. Please! I beg you, pity the stress felt in these aching bones. No, no, I cannot go on. To write and, please, to dance with trees? Well, no matter! As you can see, my talent certainly has gone and fled. No more writing. Ah, no more words, indeed. Lie as you will. I know you will speak once again, you Fool.

Literature

Lost At Last

If I'm to be lost then stamp out this soul, let the remnant be burned falling away into a cinder and flame. Let the last of my heart, pound a beat to giveaway falling in flight, then crush me with your palm to kill me where I stand. If I was lost, forget me here by the stony grey edge and think of me as nothing, but that dream akin to myth. If the last of your heart hurts with such a pain, to twist into knots of a memory sweet thing. Remember I am to be lost, faded from your time as an echo out in mountainous space. Maybe, at some long-distant point, far out from this last date is where your aching pain may float away. On ever days of light that shine out, down upon your heart you sing of joyous delight, having lost my name.

FroggyArtDesigns

Literature

In Remembrance Of Winter

As I stand enveloped in the chilling embrace of the impending storm, I can distinctly sense the delicate flakes of snow descending from the tumultuous heavens above, each crystal shimmering ethereal before merging into a collective, silent blanketing of the earth below. This winter gale, laden with an oppressive sense of anticipation, seems to vibrate with an unspoken promise of transformation, as the very atmosphere thickens with the weight of the falling snow. Concurrently, I observe the once vibrant roses succumbing to the inexorable forces of nature, their petals, once full of life, now fading into a melancholic tableau of wilted hues, resembling the last gasp of summer's warmth before being consigned to the relentless march of winter. The verdant blades of grass, which only yesterday danced gracefully with the caress of the gentle breeze, lie dormant and lifeless now, stilled in their growth and robbed of their lush vibrancy by the frigid tendrils of cold that creep across the landscape. A profound stillness envelops the scene, casting a shroud of darkness over the world, as if nature itself has drawn a curtain to shield us from the cacophony of life that once thrived in these surroundings. In this momentary cessation of rhythmic existence, where even the breath of the wind seems to hold its tongue, I become acutely aware of the singular, most intimate sound that permeates the silence the relentless throbbing of my heart, which beats in a measured cadence that echoes the tumultuous emotions swirling within me, a stark reminder of the fire of life that still resides within, contrasting sharply with the frigid desolation that surrounds me.

Literature

Tapestry Of Burdens

Amidst the delicate tapestry woven from the scarlet petals of roses, their fragrance mingling with the acrid scent of decay, and beneath the omnipresent shadow of the nocturnal bats that flit silently through the obsidian sky, there lies, ensconced in the poignant solitude of my thoughts, a heart burdened yet resolute. This heart, once vibrant and pulsating with fervent life, now rests upon the shoreline of desolation, encased in the cold, unyielding embrace of a watery sepulcher a tomb not of granite and marble, but of memories and lost dreams, submerged beneath the relentless tide of time and sorrow. As the ceaseless waves of the ocean, industrious and untamed, rage ferociously against the jagged rocks, cascading droplets of brine and despair upon the parched earth, I perceive the tumultuous symphony of nature itself a profound resonance with the anguished strains of my own existence. Each rhythmic crash reverberates through the very marrow of my being, echoing the tumult within my breast. Time, that insidious specter, unfolds incessantly, unraveling the gossamer threads of days gone by, permitting the cold fingers of nostalgia to caress the tender sinews of my heart, which, though encased in sorrow, yet beats a solitary heart, tenderized by the ravages of loss and longing. Oh, how the ocean, in its ceaselessness, weaves itself into the fabric of my lamentations! Each gentle whisper of the breeze carries forth the haunting echoes of laughter long abandoned, of promises unfulfilled, and of the unrealized reveries that once sparkled brightly amidst the dusk. Here, upon this desolate shoreline, where land meets sea and hope meets despair, I find myself lost in a reverie of melancholic introspection, caught in the treacherous undertow of reminiscence that both nourishes and starves the flickering flame of my spirit. Yet, it is here, amid the rotting remains of cherished moments and the mournful flutters of the winged creatures that herald the encroaching darkness, that I draw breath. My heart, though tender and bruised, remains resilient an indomitable entity that perseveres against the unforgiving torrents of fate. It persists in its silent lamentation, an elegy for all that was and all that may never again be that which was tendered by the ephemeral nature of existence, now interred in the deep, unfathomable depths of this aqueous grave. And still, as the relentless ocean rages forth unceasingly a majestic embodiment of the myriad of emotions that swell like the tides I am reminded that though my heart may lie in despondence, it beats still, a threnody to what once was, an unwavering testament to that which endures.

Literature

From The Heart Of A Gothic Poet

Silence, poverty of words and a poet's death. The black unfolds me, though the current is silent and heavy. It last only one moment before the moon bows and we say farewell. And we become the stars playing the dusty stage of passing time and lost playwrights are only a whisper left in our ears tickling our minds. Aw, I the poet set fires within your minds and ignite your imagination with my Gothic preposition. From a poet's heart, that like a seed I bloom, for thy love hydrates me and helps me plot my poetry.

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Site Header

Deviation Actions

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Everything Ends

Life, the Riddle

To Remember

Melodramatic

Lost At Last

In Remembrance Of Winter

Tapestry Of Burdens

From The Heart Of A Gothic Poet

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Everything Ends

Life, the Riddle

To Remember

Melodramatic

Lost At Last

In Remembrance Of Winter

Tapestry Of Burdens

From The Heart Of A Gothic Poet

Sapped in Time

Description

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Everything Ends

Life, the Riddle

To Remember

Melodramatic

Lost At Last

In Remembrance Of Winter

Tapestry Of Burdens

From The Heart Of A Gothic Poet