Death is the end

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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?


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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.

A World

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There is a world full of life,
and love, Peace and happiness
Somewhere else.

Not in this galaxy,
Maybe not
Even in this Universe.

But we can be THAT world.
We must recognize our brothers
And our sisters.

We must realize our differences,
Do not make us different,
But the same.

We must find hate is a crime,
Not only against others,
But also ourselves.

unless we find that other world
with life and love,
Peace and happiness,
We must protect this one,
And become the other.