Memento Mori Poem Novels & Stories

' Keith was still kneeling and touching that scar while calling my name over and over again. Each cry sounded more heart-wrenching than the last. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. "Don't leave me. Please open your eyes and look at me." I floated behind him and watched everything. It was too late. If only those words had been said while I was still alive. Liam couldn't take it anymore. He ran in and dragged Keith out. Keith looked like an empty shell without a soul. He let Liam pull him away. His eyes were frighteningly hollow.

"I think not." "Memento mori." Remember your mortality. He declared and he saw the brat's eyes widen; there was no question that they were on equal grounds in terms of prowess though their abilities and strengths differed however the one crux the brat probably never bothered to think upon was that he was immortal and therefore much, much harder to kill as compared to a mortal. "Maranasati." Remember death.

His voice was softer when he began, tracing each syllable with the care of someone building a bridge. “‘If I should die, think only of me,’” he said, pausing after each word to taste it. “‘That there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever…’” “England,” I finished quietly, the old line finding its way back to me. “It’s a poem about memory. About belonging somewhere, even when you’re gone.” Liam looked at me with that sudden seriousness that children sometimes have, the kind that seems borrowed from another lifetime. “Would people remember me too?”

“Oh I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part would be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead.

Though the storm rocks our boats and the gentle wind eases our rows, our peace still ebbs and flows, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. In a of white and black world, let's be just enough to repel these filthy shades of grey. Karma is a poet, so please the arms that make you less a prey, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. So let us milk the cow while it is still dawn, for the night comes, when only the diligent will be able to admire the milk he weighed. Even if the sun rises on our evening wake, time will surely set on our wasted years, then our

"Let's do this right." They started and finished the chant that was written in the book. The smoke envelopes the room. When the smoke vanished, the rosemary appeared. This flower signifies remembrance, perhaps because it's said to enhance memory. It burst into pieces and lived on their skin. The small rosemary flower became a tattoo on the back of their ears. "Now, we just have to trust the process and wait for the new moon."

She quickly asked, “Then, when?” The leader explained, “To awaken the Demon Lord’s memory, you first need an item.” “What is it?” “The mnemonia.” The leader explained, “On the Bridge of Lamentation, souls will drink Lethe’s elixir to forget about their past and start over. All beings that pass through the Bridge of Lamentation must drink it. “In her hands, she also holds the mnemonia that can reawaken memories and reveal everything. Once you get the mnemonia, you can awaken the Demon Lord’s memory.”

No one is in there, but I know I wasn’t imagining things. “There is something that you always have with you, but you always leave behind,” she says in her melodious voice. “There is something with no legs to dance, no lungs to breathe, no life to live or die, and yet it does all three.” A riddle? Why is she telling me a riddle? I shake my head. This is insane–the wildest part being that I somehow know this is my mother’s voice. “What does that mean?” I ask the water.

In their language. “Memory is not what remains. It is what returns.” Eleni whispered, “It’s a gate.” Jessica looked stunned. “A gate to what?” Lena rose. “That’s the wrong question.” “Then what’s the right one?” Jessica asked. Lena stepped forward. “What do we still owe the ones we forgot?” They made camp that night beside the field. The pools hummed faintly in their sleep. Eleni collected one fungal bloom and placed it in her journal, sealing it between layers of rice paper and silence.

The graveyard was so neat. Row upon row of white marble tombstones all rising from the thick blanket of snow. Each one was perfect, polished and exactly the same as all of the others, except the name it bore. They were lined up perfectly with those in front and behind, a city block for the dead. Life is but a roaming shadow, a pitiable thespian. Who struts and frets his few moments upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale imparted by a foolish wit, full of noise and fury... yet meaningless nonetheless.