Unspoken Poeticism

Dying and Dying and Living

It is wonderful and tragic, is it not? We begin our lives with nothing, not properly grasping the concepts of life or love or death. But we learn.

We learn what it is to sense, to awaken to sunshine, to bathe in moonlight. We learn what it is to share a soul with another being. We learn the sensation of our heart swelling, or fluttering like wings of a dove, or even stopping during the moments that steal our breaths away. We learn that we bleed through our pores when we are injured; but in true despair, dewdrops form and cling to our eyelashes and spill down our cheeks. We learn what sounds to make to express ourselves. We learn what syllables to string together to create poetry, what notes to combine to create music.

We sing and we dance and we laugh and we cry, and we try even though, for all we know, there is not so much as a Heaven beyond the veil. We know not where souls originated from, or why some are rotten to the very core while others are pure. We know not why we can love another from the stars to the stars, but we continue to do so regardless.

Death is interwoven in the tiny miracles of life, for not a single person has ever died only once. Those we have chosen to fuse souls with cannot perish without a piece of ourselves following suit. But we continue. We flourish and wither away. We are healthy and sick. We are dying and dying and dying—

And we are living.