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Thread: Death-to-life-to-death (Or: Life Circle)

  1. #1
    Sweet farewell, Good Nite
    Join Date
    Oct 2005
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    2,336

    Death-to-life-to-death

    Life moves in a circle
    The circle hangs patiently above a mother's womb
    High above a pale blue ocean
    where seagulls cry like the newborn baby
    thrown from illumined water
    Her pink mouth, round and wet
    with gasping eyes and breath
    penetrating caves of ice
    into far reaches and depths
    That where it can't go
    can never see,
    nor hear...

    This is death's song

    It conspires to conceal itself
    The secret of the circle...a single, pale arc
    that burns a firey red above an always limited horizon
    With grace and hope
    Grief and magic stars high above
    For which we open ourselves
    naked, willing, waiting
    One roaring flame, sacred, eternal fire...

    The rest, Fate
    Last edited by jon1jt; 12-10-2005 at 04:47 AM.
    "He was nauseous with regret when he saw her face again, and when, as of yore, he pleaded and begged at her knees for the joy of her being. She understood Neal; she stroked his hair; she knew he was mad."
    ---Jack Kerouac, On The Road: The Original Scroll

  2. #2
    Registered User
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    Nov 2005
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    13
    There is a life circle
    you are born with nothing but crying ,die with nothing but moaning painfully
    Life is so long but so short too ,just like the day -night ,maybe life is serval times long than that
    Sometimes I suspire to the inappreciable life we own and always ask myself what does the life mean ? But I can't answer it from many years ago to now

  3. #3
    Sweet farewell, Good Nite
    Join Date
    Oct 2005
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    Who ever put us here just didn't give us enough information to "figure it all out," and what we're left with is our mind, which loves to conceptualize...hence, circle.
    Thanks for reading...very very much appreciated...really!!
    "He was nauseous with regret when he saw her face again, and when, as of yore, he pleaded and begged at her knees for the joy of her being. She understood Neal; she stroked his hair; she knew he was mad."
    ---Jack Kerouac, On The Road: The Original Scroll

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