Death Of A Friend Poetry Novels & Stories

The sight of their lifeless forms lying in such a desolate place broke something inside him. He moved among the bodies, recognizing friends and acquaintances. There was Kamal, who had taught him the art of decoding ancient texts, his once sharp eyes now closed forever. Over there lay Meera, who had shared meals and memories, her vibrant spirit now silenced. Each lifeless form told a story of a life unfairly cut short, and Nand felt the weight of their loss pressing down on him.

Death is not mighty, Death is a humble widower who sits weeping by a lighthouse window, polishing brass for the seagulls, ash more bread than fireplace, eating the leftover cheese that has hardened and become dogfood. Death is not loud, Death speaks only the tongue of toads. He is a toad, he crouches in the small places, soaking up rain. Rough skin poison, brown and dun and wood, wet and wanting. Give him some weeds, he is happy, give him a kingdom, he cries. Death my comfort, Death my confidant, Death my escort. We ramble over the mountains, making strange bedfellows at inn beyond the wood beyond the worlds, in Siduri's bar

We only met once when I was in kindergarten, and we became friends and even exchanged gifts; I gave him a bar of chocolate, and he gave me this ring," I said, pulling the ring from around my neck. "We agree to always wear the ring because he has one as well and told me his mom asked him to share it with his friend." I was overjoyed with the ring and couldn't wait to tell my father. I couldn't find him after the closing hour; he vanished into thin air. I assumed I'd see him when I returned to school the next day, unaware that it would be the last day of kindergarten, that will be the last time I see my friend because my father was killed on the same day. "I'm so sorry for what you've been thr

The incomprehensible mystery of being. Kit's fingers rake the wet lump, crush it, grind it. A handful of black earth with a rustle crumbles over white, in sharp contrast. As sharply as the contrast between life and death. “Goodbye, friend…” she says softly.

In the chaos of my thoughts, I found solace in the sanctuary of his arms. -Unknown. |Z Y R A| As I contemplate the deadly shadow of lung cancer that looms over my best friend, I find myself on the precipice of despair. The weight of disappointment in myself bears down like a heavy shroud, threatening to smother my icy, stoic demeanor.

Worth the echo within For getting hurt It is no more new to me It is no more strange to me The search for money From floor to floor Makes me crazy Damn, it is this My dedications My indisputable Life's achievement After great efforts Pain, pain and only pain Remains I must die I feel at times Why live Why live But then I now count Suicide a sin But am I still not Being dying Each day, by hurt in it Some new disease In me Shown so bright My inability To compete With my life's misfit Am I not dying Or approaching death Closer and clearer Each day appears My end Am I not dying With pain in the chest With the inability to compete With sorrows, I have met Dead past too Unfortunately It is not dea

But, those clothes and shoes looked l-like Luna Amber's…" Matthew's cell phone fell to the floor with a thud once again. This time, it was completely smashed. Matthew collapsed to the floor at the same time he dropped his phone. His much beloved Luna Amber had committed suicide in the icy lake. Not only that, she took their baby with her. Her body sank to the bottom of the lake, and no one could find them no matter how they tried. Alpha Matthew, who loved her so deeply, seemed to have a hard time accepting this reality.

"Because I can't stand to see you break. And because... because I think I’m the only one who knows exactly how much it hurts to lose someone who's still alive." I was thinking of my father, the man who was a ghost in my own house, but I didn't say it. I didn't have to. Trish reached up, her small hand trembling as she touched my cheek. Her thumb brushed away a stray drop of rain, or maybe it was a tear of my own. I didn't know anymore. "Thank you," she breathed. We got into the car, and as we drove away, I looked back at the cemetery one last time. My mother’s best friend was gone. Trish’s world was over. And as the gates of the graveyard closed behind us,

"Since I was young, I have never been able to decide between a difficult life or a success. I've always been poor, ugly, and life didn't give me opportunities. A person like you shouldn't be here. Not by committing less than being loyal to friends. That's what I think.” "I don't know how I should feel about it," I confessed in a low tone. "Everyone sees my loyalty to these friends as the worst decision I could have made in my entire life. And even I don't know what to think properly. I don't know if they would do the same for me. And now they're all dead, so I can't ask. And I've never had other friends in my life. I always got along well with people, I always attracted them all, but it neve

I am not whole. People always talk about grief in terms of death. There’s no going back from that cryptic place; no way to recover what you’ve lost. That person is gone, permanently, and you’re left alone in a world that’s indifferent to your existence. One thing they forget to mention, however, is that losing a friendship can hurt just as much. The Mateo I knew is as good as dead. The ghost of him lingers – in the gifts in my dresser, in his faint scent on my bed, in the walking corpse that looks like him still. But he’s gone. We’re done.