What remains once the war is won?
A kingdom of corpses.
His name too heavy in my mouth.
What do we become in death?
What do we keep once we are ghosts?
The blood under my fingernails.
His crooked teeth.
Searching for happiness in the threads of his hands.
A love that burned alive.
A love that is still bursting in my hollow chest.
A love that was never enough.
What do you do when you’re alone in the darkness?
Wait for him,
I’ll wait forever if I must.
Were you ever able to name one hero who was happy?
“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.”