I sat with my words today,
pages scattered like fallen leaves,
and it struck me
this might be all I leave behind.
Ink, not flesh.
Paper, not laughter.
Stories stitched from loneliness,
poems built from the marrow of my grief.
I wonder if someone will find them,
thumb through the lines,
hear the ghost of my voice
pressed between each syllable.
These words carry my breath,
my quiet confessions,
the fragments of me I never showed the world.
They are the evidence that I lived,
that I felt,
that I loved in my own shadowed way.
When I am gone,
no monument will rise for me,
no crowd will whisper my name.
But perhaps one line,
just one,
will cling to someone’s chest
and remind them of the tender weight
of being human.
And that will be enough.
About the Creator
Violence Begets
"Any last words, cowboy?" "None you'd understand, sodbuster." "Funny. That's Marshall Sodbuster to you. But I meant some last nugget that would help us in the adjudication of the myriad offenses counted against you and your gang. I wasn't asking for penitence."
By Adam Diehl6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
How do you feel about absurdism as a philosophy? It may sound silly but I actually take some comfort in the idea of impermanence. It’s sort of paradoxical, but the fact that our lives are so brief and so likely to bear difficulty, is sort of like a big sign from the universe that we should try to make the good moments count. I don’t really believe in the idea of life having an intrinsic meaning or purpose, but I do take comfort in the idea that while we’re here we’re free to try and live a good life and that can include making our own meaning.
Thank you for sharing it with us now. 🙏💖👏