Love is Lonely

Kyle Hanton | Free Poems

Death is the end

Death is the end
of life, of love
of everything.
Death is nothing,
or rather the absence
of being.

Death is the only
Absolute conqueror.
He has never fought
A battle and lost.
He only wins
And moves on.

His victims are silent,
They cannot cry out,
Run or hide.
They must only wait
And accept.
Is it no wonder
We fear him?

Death is the end
I say, But maybe
I am wrong. Is life
The actual End of Death?
As life is beautiful.
Could not death be more so?

In the spring, Life ends death.
Could the end of our lives
Merely take us full circle
And just lead to rebirth?
A changing, if you will?

  This poem is also about:

• kyle hanton

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Death and Life

Death is terrible.
Life is beautiful.
Death comes quietly.
Life roars.
Death destroys.
Life creates.
Death is Glorious.
Life is miserable.
Death conquers.
Life dies.
Death builds legends.
Life makes villains.
Death is Life.

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The Fall

Silence invades,
Stifling all thought.
A man stands at the edge
of a chasm, confused,
Alone, lost.

He knows this place.
His body language
Makes it obvious,
But he is searching,
Something is missing.

He sees it, finally.
The burned wreckage
Of what was a bridge.
It collapsed down
To that far away floor.

Vague memories,
Of explosives
Made of words and actions
Come back to him,
He knows where he is

A whispered word,
Half remembered,
Unconsciously leaves his mouth
And floats across,
Echoing.

The word grows louder
As it rebounds
Bringing torturing clarity
To those oft forgotten
Memories.

He hears the word
For the first time
Since it left his mouth.
That terrible word
Brings tears to his eyes.

He reaches up,
Touches his face,
Feels the wetness.
Unbelieving the tears,
He looks down.

He stares long and hard
At the depths of that chasm.
His eyes trace the other side,
Looking for some way across,
But it is so far away.

Once it was so close,
He remembers.
Once this chasm wasn’t here,
But instead was solid
Beneath their feet.

Once he held her
On this very ground,
And he was happy.
As he thinks, the memories
Tear at his mind.

That word escapes
His mouth again
Without thinking
And her name echoes
Across the canyon.

Louder and Louder
It grows in his mind,
Driving him mad.
Despairing, searching,
He sees only her face.

He sees her clearly,
Right in front of him.
The ground is solid again.
He steps, trusting,
Just as she trusted.

But it was a sham,
A trick played
By his own mind,
The traitorous wretch,
And he falls.

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Reality

Scribbles on the page
Words out of my mouth
They mean nothing.

Jane Austen, Hemingway,
Even Robert Frost,
Their words are but words.

What do words mean,
When I have pictures?
They are nothing.

What are pictures,
When I have my eyes?
A thousand words.

But one thousand zeroes,
Or a million, a billion,
Are still nothing.

But what are my eyes,
“Reality” and time,
When I have my imagination?

My eyes, the “reality”, is fake
When compared to
The lucidity of my dreams.

But what of my non-lucid dreams,
the ones when I wake up-
Or does it fall asleep?- I cannot recall?

Perhaps these
These are the most real of all.

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The Dark

I live, but I am dead.
I love, but I am hate.
I think, but I am action.
I am, but I am not.
The world will not move
For me anymore,
Not without you,
And yet, Time goes on,
And the Earth moves on.
All the while,
The Dark creeps up,
Coming for me,
And I am lightless,
But I shine.

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