Memento Mori Poem Novels & Stories

Her eyes were swollen, her hands trembling as she held tightly to the folded handkerchief. She had cried until there was nothing left to pour out, yet the tears still came, silently, endlessly. The priest, a tall man with a gentle yet commanding voice, stood before the casket. His voice carried through the crowd as he began the sermon. “Life,” he said, pausing briefly as the wind brushed through his white robe, “is like a candle. It burns bright and gives warmth, but eventually, it flickers out. And when it does, it leaves behind memories — the true mark of who we were and how we lived.”

A game of magic and truth lies within. Where many things end, and very little begin. If you find yourself running, stop and think. In the memories of the past, find the missing link. A choice to make at the very end, Give in to the familiar, or choose to transcend. The first two lines of the poem stood out in my mind, bringing up a memory that I knew I'd never forget. I glanced at the darkness that seemed to wait at the edges of the cavern entrance, recalling that same feeling I had when seeing the memory of my aunt, Sasha. She had also been underground, in a rocky place where the darkness seemed--alive.

She dances gracefully at the ominous and dark room as she wonders and hum the eerie tone with her mind that pin and sinks to the poem she made and curse to the very core. “Well, well, well, who among you readers wanted to read my hell of a curse poem?” Teasing a daring, she continues to hum the devil’s lullaby as she whispers the words of the poem. TOMIKO’S HELL Round and round our life spins and about Twist and turn you can hear a silent scream Up and down what a lovely dream Until you find yourself eating a flesh cream Oh, how ironic living and dying In the world where everything is pretty much boring

Arrogance befit no man for whatever we have today, won’t be buried with us tomorrow. ~Humeyra. HAMDAN’S P.O.V The last messages I got from Humeyra really messed me up. I didn’t know that I meant so much to her that my death would affect her as much as she said. The poem she wrote to me still lingers in my mind as I recall my heart beating to every word that her poetry entailed. The poem goes as follows:

My life's a feat though I've tasted defeat. I have fought so true as my heart beats. Go away memory, go away, go away! Leave with my soul as my body falls in the hay. Let there be strown on my lonely grave. Honor me as a friend, a warrior so brave. Tis, my last words shall be brought forth. As the deadly solstice forest embraces my fate. Remember me. Remember me, with or without grace...

“Who is the murderer now?” “Who is the murderer now?” “Who is the murderer now?” The question continues to whisper in my head repeatedly. I looked under my bed for one last time and the body is still there. That makes me scared more because little by little. I will be convinced that I killed the man but “How?” a sudden question in my head that I don’t know the answer because I know to myself that I am not murder but “What is the body doing here, under my bed?” I asked myself that question. “I don’t know” is the answer because I really don’t know. I tried to remember what happened last night. I am only meditating when I fall asleep. I know I fell asleep because I left my stuff where it was an

**** Aaj hum nahi, kal Humari Yaadein hongi Jab hum na honge, Tab humari baatein hongi. Kabhi paltoge zindagi ke Ye panne, To shayad aapki aankhon se Bhi barsaatein hongi.... (Today I am here, but tomorrow There will be my memories, If I will not be here There will be the talks of mine) (If you will turn the pages Of life Then I think you will also cry Remembering me) **** Marna to sabko ek na ek din padega.

I had been used to it. By now, Blake was wrapped up in his fairy-tale wedding with his first love, Megan Burns, and had no time to say goodbye to my father. His heart had long since drifted, so requesting his presence was meaningless. In fact, we were better off without him. I didn't want him to appear and taint the memorial. As the coffin was lowered into the earth, the weight of loss crushed me. The man who'd loved me unconditionally was gone. Staring at his photo on the tombstone, I couldn't hold it together any longer. My knees hit the cold ground, and a wail tore from my throat, raw and unstoppable.

she thought. After reading the book for hours and a half from “You’re My Butterfly”, she saw her wall clock showing that it was almost late at night. She went to bed, and the girl turned off the lights. By then, Evelina had laid herself on her bed and she was thinking about something. “The butterfly makes the life of the person closest to her become more colorful, but one day, she vanishes in the life of someone else,” she explained. “It’s sad. It must be the people closest to her who feel sad. When someone of value suddenly disappears, it hurts a lot. Never give it up! I’d better just sleep.”

I could almost hear whispers coming from the projection itself, voices promising to show me things I didn't want to see, to make me relive every failure. "And the third is The Memory Thief's Garden. Perhaps the most dangerous of all because it doesn't attack, it seduces. Every memory you cherish will be offered for trade. Every moment of happiness, love, joy, peace, the Garden will promise you more, so much more, if you just give up a few memories in exchange. It's insidious. Predatory in a subtle way. The Garden knows exactly what you want most and will offer it to you wrapped in beautiful lies. Deadies who enter rarely leave. And those who do are hollow shells, having traded away everythin