As Mortal as Reality Falls

It’s where few of us lie, aiming
Beyond the illusion of what we can see,
Far past the barrier
Of what we can’t be.
There our dreams, goals, and wishes,
Not far from our reach.
Across the nothing, a bridge
To what we can’t yet complete.
Across the gap, this void of ignorance,
There is a voice that calls,
“Time is as finite as its observer
And as mortal as reality falls.
Do not be saddened, we all must die,
That’s what makes our time here precious,
An immortals time is nothing,
As an infinite store of gold: worthless.”
It matters not if the illusion is real,
Or the barrier can’t be moved past,
What’s important is we try and fill
Each moment with what then lasts.
Time is as finite as its observer,
And as mortal as reality falls,
Our lives are adolescence to eternity,
Before our names, that voice, does call.

A Question of Who

A crisis not of many words
And terrifying in its simplicity.
Approaches from behind the shadows
Cast by ones own identity.
“Who am I?” then “Who are you?”,
The better question arises.
The answer relative, in a vacuum of what society despises.
One cannot respond with their name,
Though that is all what is expected.
This excludes the discovery made while one sits calm, and collected.
Incomplete and not entirely untrue,
It is enough to sedate the curiosity.
The oceans surface like a name does not reveal its own entirety.
This cannot be answered by a question only of the surface.
Through quests of years, and trails of tears,
An outcome far from worthless.

Silence Calls

The world is dark and dim and shifting,
Beneath a quiet shell uplifting.
In the silence one was calling
She stopped to listen…
Heard leaves falling.
Almost footsteps, ones behind her.
Turned to look and heard survivors,
Still living echos of her own,
So cold and far away from home.
On her way, walking faster now.
Down a path to the edge of town,
Where the world, dark and dimming,
In its shadows with mysteries brimming.
None may see her final flight,
If safely home, or had to fight.
Those footsteps she once heard before,
Were her own, but something more.
For reaching from her twilight shadow,
Her reflection from graves shallow.
Grasping at her ankles so,
It may not have to let her go.
Then turning slowly back to see
What has gripped so desperately,
Then looking into that shadows face,
None but her own would take its place.
She is it, and it the shadow.
The day is done and she’s left hollow.
The world is dark and dim and shifting.
Beneath this shell that is uplifting,
There is one, who in silence calls,
Waiting for another, who, listening, falls.

An Overexposure to Flesh

An overexposure to flesh,
A sensation not unlike the rest.
Once caught up in the scheme of things,
The world is seen for what it seems.
And just like that and then it’s over,
We’ll get no help from this four-leafed-clover
To love and be loved before we’re dead
Is the purpose that’s placed on our heads.
This is our only concern and not to live longer.
To love all who we can while our hearts become stronger.
This toxic covering, us, into mortals make,
Turning what little time there is into a more precious take.