Memento Mori Poem Novels & Stories

“That vision was your first loosening. The tether stirred. But now… you must choose whether to keep untying it.” I didn’t answer as I tried to focus. The monk crouched beside me and held out a folded cloth. Inside it, an ancient scrap of parchment. A poem. Inked by hand, delicate and worn. He recited it slowly: Chant of the Third Tether; ’Breathe like a flame that remembers its fire, Still as the root that outlasts the spire. Unhook the weight where memory clings, Let silence unfold your spirit’s wings. The soul is a shadow that longs to roam,

As you look upon a flower and admire its simplicity - remember me. Remember me in your heart, your thoughts, your memories of the times we loved, the times we cried, the times we fought, the times we laughed. For if you always think of me, I will never be gone. Margaret Mead “Let us never forget those who gave all to Skatom Mochain,” I said and lowered my glass to drink. I can say one thing for sure, this stuff wasn’t for the weak, it burned a bit going down.

The garden was the soul remembered. The light was the breath remembered. The love was the reason remembered. And it was remembered. The choice remembered. The light remembered. The love remembered. The being remembered. Always. The cursed wolf was the first who remembered. The light was the remembering. Love was the reason. And it remembered. In every ordinary day remembered. In every small choice remembered. In every heart that remembered. The manor was remembered. The garden remembered. The light was remembered. In the quiet remembered. In the ordinary remembered.

From the night crows to the bouquets that appear and mysteriously disappear, nothing more matched reality for more than two decades, Artemisia felt dumb to still be impressed by the events of recent weeks. "If I'm a... Undead, why don't I remember when I died? Is it some rule of the Spirits of the Beyond The Grave?” Leonore wanted to laugh, she saw it in the background of those blue porcelain eyes of the girl. "No, everyone who dies and continues to walk remembers their deaths, but you don't... died, technically it was barely a living thing.” Artemisia's face was pure confusion, she thought. Since Leonore let out a sigh and got ready in bed. It seemed like it was going to be a long talk.

"*Each fragment catching different light, reflecting different spectrum. You're becoming prism instead of beam—splitting white light into infinite colors.*" Luna-who-creates began painting his transformation. "Not breaking but blooming. Each fragment a seed that will grow in different consciousness, creating garden of shared memory." But Luna-who-loves, anchored in mortality, wept. "You're choosing form of death that doesn't end. Conscious fragmentation. You'll feel yourself scattered forever." "Better than feeling memories die," Dimitri said through Protection now speaking from dozen forming fragments. "Every reality that ceased deserves witness. I'm becoming that witness, multiplied across

I looked outside the window and saw a lot of herbs and flowers around the mansion's garden. Well, I know where mom planted those herbs. This is fun. I went downstairs and saw aunt Melinda reading a book with a bloody title. Let's turn everything bloody then. You love red anyway. I am looking forward to it. "Good morning Melinda, I want to go outside." "Sure, do what you want." She closed the book she was reading and stood in front of me. "Tus días están contados." She whispered behind my ear. I smirked and replied, "Memento mori."

Elora (unwritten but nearby) I’ve stopped assigning names. Now I wait until something returns to me more than once. A shadow across the same stone. a recollection of multiple breaths. A warmth by a doorway. And then I press my palm to my own chest and murmur: > "You've occurred once more. So I’ll remember without trapping you in ink.” That’s the only rite left to us now. Memory that does not capture only companion. Lila We gathered that evening without asking who was missing. We laid five riverstones beside the basin not for balance. For rhythm.

A blanket of thick fog joined the group as it crept up out of nowhere, bringing with it howling wind and shivering skin. "What's that?" Zander saw a concrete structure peeking out of the mist ahead. He focused his vision. "Looks like a gigantic headstone." "That's exactly what it is," Isis agreed. They walked until they came upon the headstone. It seemed pitiful and primitive, yet the creepiest thing about it was the epitaph. It read; ~REMEMBER ME AS YOU PASS BY. AS YOU ARE NOW, SO ONCE WAS I. AS I AM NOW, SO YOU SHALL BE. PREPARE FOR DEATH AND FOLLOW ME.~

"Death is before me today: like the recovery of a sick man, like going forth into a garden after sickness. Death is before me today: like the odour of myrrh, like sitting under a sail in a good wind. Death is before me today: like the course of a stream; like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house. Death is before me today: like the home that a man longs to see, after years spent as a captive."

Through laughter and sorrow, through birth and death, through silence and storm. I am no longer a name, no longer a queen, no longer the rejected child of the moon. I am what remains when everything else fades— the echo between light and dark, the pause between fear and hope, the heartbeat between one breath and the next. And when the people look up at the night sky, when they see that the moon is whole again, they don’t pray to me. They remember me. That is enough. --- Because I was never meant to be eternal. Only remembered.