Hello Samantha Anne,

: )

What About Death is Easy Again?

mooneymegan:

I had a dream quite beautiful and true
About which I cannot say-
Nevertheless chaos abruptly ensued
The bed that once let angels visit then fleet
Now chained me with ruthless prongs-grappling
My head, my chest, my thighs, my feet
And now, I can no longer rest
For you or for me
…Not truly.

The world has shown its true colors
And your heart is broken
And you met the man, the mauler
He has taken a part of you for good
And I feel sick for the ones who cry each morning
Who can lay their heads against the coffin-smell the wood
And now, I can no longer rest
For you or for me
My poor friend, my darling.

What about death is easy?
I fear just the notion-I must be candid
All those men strapped to the chair
Their deeds discovered, branded, caught red-handed
When death was easy, now no longer
Do they find it sobering?
As they shiver, do they wonder, as they quiver
Do they even dare?
I cannot be sure…not truly.

I miss you so much honey,
You died with him and spiraled deep into the earth
A lost child in a shell-you are inside, tucked and curled
And I miss you so dearly
Will you ever come back again?
No I suppose not-you’re too far gone
You’re outta’ sight, outta’ mind, outta’ sin
You’re some place far-a poor weary son
And do you feel sad there?
Do you even dare?
My poor friend.

I awoke from the wildest dream
And now I cannot sleep
All those white suits and the wicker basket,
Those yarn woven pigs and you, the sheep
And I’ve never felt more lonely
But this was never about me
Not completely
…Not truly.

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? -W.B. Yeats