𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦𝐬 ✃𓄧꒷꒦

[death-277]

freedom

“What is freedom?”

asked the child to the ocean.

The sea only laughed

and kept reaching for shores

it could never hold.

“Is it the absence of chains?”

asked the bird in the cage.

The wind replied,

“If I belonged nowhere,

why do storms still wander in circles?”

A king once swallowed the horizon whole

and called himself infinite.

Yet every morning

he stood at the same window,

searching for something unnamed.

Tell me..

if a man could have every fruit from every tree,

would hunger still feel sacred?

If every road led nowhere forbidden,

would walking still mean escape?

“give a man too much freedom and it will all be tasteless”

For even rivers need banks

or they become floods.

Even stars obey distance,

or the heavens collapse into fire.

So what is freedom?

Is it doing everything?

Or choosing one thing

while a thousand others call your name?

The moon asked the wolf,

“Why do you howl at what you cannot touch?”

And the wolf answered,

“Because longing gives the night its meaning.”

Maybe freedom

was never meant to be endless.

Maybe the soul needs resistance

the way kites need wind,

something to fight against

just to remain in the sky.

[death-277]

who are we?

this body means nothing to me, and I hope you agree

a cage of breathing bone,

a temporary tragedy

pretending to be home.

I wear my skin like punishment,

like chains stitched into flesh,

every heartbeat feels reluctant,

every breath arrives grotesque.

People speak of souls as holy,

as if we're sculpted out of light,

but I have watched the world too closely

to still believe they're right.

Love is hunger wearing perfume,

kindness just a quieter greed,

we tear each other open slowly

and call the violence “need.”

I think sadness tastes the sweetest

when it settles in too deep,

when your mind becomes a cathedral

where even God won’t sleep.

And maybe that is what I worship,

not heaven, not the sun,

but the comfort in destruction,

the peace of coming undone.

The philosophers wrote about meaning,

about purpose, fate, and grace,

yet all their words feel like mirrors

afraid to face the face

of death sitting at the dinner table,

smiling patient and sincere,

watching every human scramble

to make existence less severe.

But me?

I think we’re just collapsing stars

with poetry in our mouths,

romanticizing suffering

because silence scares us out.

Still, there’s beauty in the ruin.

A certain elegance in decay.

Flowers smell the strongest

right before they fade away.

(Poem Name Credit: oblisake)

[death-277]

You Are My Moon

I love the moon..

but that was never about the sky.

The stars spill themselves across the dark,

restless, flickering,

begging to be seen,

but I have never learned

how to love a crowd.

My eyes have always searched

for something quieter,

something that doesn’t tremble

when the night gets heavy.

And then there was you.

Not loud, not endless..

just there,

hanging in my silence

like you belonged to it.

You don’t shine the way they do.

You don’t have to.

There’s something softer in you...

a light that doesn’t reach for attention,

but finds me anyway,

like it knows my name

better than I do.

So let the sky keep its stars.

Let them burn themselves out

trying to be everything at once.

I only ever needed one,

and I found you where the night finally felt like home.

You are my moon.