Poems On Life's Journey Mga Nobela at Kwento

A life that had been lifeless since its inception. This is how my journey ends. This is what it all signifies. My life is a song of winter. A song of death. Under the mourning pine tree let me be laid. Come, oh cold death let me be swayed. As the lonely white snow dissolves the heat. My life shall fly away as it takes my breath. My life, my honor, and dignity be slain. Let my royal armour be torn and stained. My life's a feat though I've tasted defeat.

I will rage against the dying light. They say that life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!"

I laid there for what seemed like days, but it was only hours. When I opened my eyes, I was alone. I was confused about what had just happened. My body did not hurt anymore. I did not feel the need to breathe. My eyes saw the room in a different light now. It was like it was daytime all around me. I smelled my wet clothes on the floor. The stream outside. The grass in front of the house, and the sweet smell of cherries in the forest. I heard movement all around me. I heard deer, fish, birds, insects, squirrels, and even what I thought to be a bear. I set up, in what seemed to be mere seconds. I looked out the window; the moon was still in the sky. I felt alive. Like I could do anything. Besi

Reaching up, I touched those tingling fingertips to her lips. Life is a journey of chance and choices; a maze of paths each leading to a different adventure and each holding a lesson to be learned through pain and consequence. There’s no way to know what lies at the other end of a particular path before you start down it. And there’s no way back.

for John Ashbery The literary life is never easy, you saw it first in the convex mirror, its spreading tension the surface of claw-prints in silver. I then tried to learn how to read humour and surprise disguised as a shadow pretending to have never seen alchemy winnow through thistles down the dark alleys of your city parks. I, the wanderer learning how to drift past shoe factories and never pay attention to the still-chiming ways of looking at a lamppost, would like to say, You are

a woman who loved hearing the praises of others! He racked his brain and found the poem he had learned in language class back then. “The white lotus grows out of the mud, yet it’s unsullied. It’s bathed by clear waves, yet it isn’t seductive. It’s hollow inside, and it’s straight outside. It neither sprawls nor branches. The farther away it is, the purer is its fragrance. Upright and elegant, it establishes itself cleanly. It can be viewed at a distance but can’t be toyed with!”

With that we talked through the night . There are times that you would close your eyes, Those special memories of me will always bring back a smile, Calling my number repeatedly but with no response , If only you could have me back for just a little while you would say ,When I fade like the shadow of moon or like the whispers of the sea, The times of pain and the days of sorrow ,Miss me a little but not too long ,I want no cries, why cry for a soul gone to a better place, a home built with gold ,The time when living feels like dying ,Miss me but let me go , When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me , Miss me but let me go , For this journey is one we all must take , Bury

She exhaled. This was a different kind of quiet. Not the heavy, pressing kind that followed her around lately. This one made room for her. Let her breathe. Raegan wandered without a plan, her fingers trailing along the spines as she passed. Poetry. Travel. Philosophy. Memoirs from people who’d lived lives wildly different from her own. Stories about leaving, about staying, about getting lost and finding something unexpected instead. Pieces of lives she didn’t live, but could step into for a moment if she wanted.

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.”

Pen poised above the paper, she hesitated, searching for the right words that could capture the swirling tempest inside her. *The weight of life feels heavier than I imagined.* She began, her script flowing smoothly yet trembling slightly. *It’s as if I’m being crushed under the burden of my past decisions. I had dreams once, bright and untarnished dreams. But life has a way of subverting expectations. What if I’m just repeating the mistakes of those before me?*