Poems about epitaph


№ 1203939

A maxim, but no epitaph

Ask me the part where marxism doesn't make more sense than darwinism, or when marxism в‰ darwinism... in england? в‰ = a train network, you fucking mcmuffin! the whole point of a "social" darwinism is that, unlike marx's "effort": we're anti-socially biased, competing... but that's not the point... what's with the desire for rekindling a community equivalent to having a village to grit root? extracting an individual from the horde is one thing, but having to craft a horde from an individual abstractrum ego, is another! add to that the whole pronoun "affair" and you have, what some poets claim: wasn't journalism the shitpile some preferred a j. r. r. tolkien to become? the presuposition of self, hyphen, well, with that, what's there to be collectivist about? what's there to actually gain from working? a fucking poststage stamp collection? there's no point to adhere to a cohesion that lacks an adhesive argument... bust-stop or bus-stop? i'm at the stage of faking a demand to watch the olympics... you know the one lesson poles were taught in school? cheating in a school ergonomic is one thing... cheating in a reality of owning the uniform of responsibility is another. *

Most people has conceive
Both "fat shaming" -
Without a fat - philia -
As most can gag out
A cat walk with an anorexic
Doctors can
Be manhndled socially as
While the rest of us...
And to have made
An appearance,
To have gratified
Human existence via cameo...
An ideologue?
A charging bull...
If red's it's honing device?
This juggling act
Of norma-marxism without
A normy-darwinism?
When, did it ever occur
To not compare Marx with Darwin?
When was colonel gaddafi
The one:
With a mortgage
But not a burial rite?
A maxim, but no epitaph?
I guess, compared to Marx,
Darwin ejaculated
The proclivity of looking
At an ape...
Unlike Marx:
Condensing it to a poor man...
But sure...
You can have
Crimean "revision"...
You fucking
... wait... what tree did
We climb off?
You call them what,
Pine chimps and birch gutans?
I said: come what may,
An African phallus will
Become a mongol chink dick will;
Imagine having to be
Drunk in order to say it,
Without being savvy...
Just, plain, dumb, Bristol... aware;
But fuck me did i enjoy

Oh i am responsible...
For the notion that there's a void,
That needs to be occupied
By mere thought,
Or finger cracking akin
To the sound
Of deep frying chicken...
And fizzes,
And then becomes a
Mormon nighmare...
Finger, fucking, licking, good.
O. k. o. k.: sizzles...
Pouts bubbles
But certainly doesn't fry...

Church hostile gorillas that climbed
Off an oak!

Makes sense...
But darwin is the antithesis
Of marx, whether you like it,
Or not.

epitaph,  maxim.

Author: MateuЕЎ Conrad
Date: 01/04/2020

№ 1199017


Here stood a pine tree
With broken parts,
Abruptly removed
For the safety of all.
No time to say goodbye,
Leaving only a headstone
Of perfumed white stump
Heaped with flowers of wood dust
And neighbors waving their branches
In funereal hymns of wind.
It loved to chat
With the other trees
And was a friend
To the neighborhood
It is missed
By the squirrels and the birds
And me.
Rest in peace.

epitaph,  pine,  tree.

Author: Jackie Wilson
Date: 28/03/2020

№ 1195058


Everything seems more poetic
When you're caught in the silence of a thunderstorm
No longer do your words roll off the tongue like lightning towards me
No longer do I depend on that lightning fire to stay warm
And as the rain drops fall
I remember when I once wrote
That "some people kiss in the rain
While others just get fucking soaked. "


Author: Vivian Elise
Date: 24/03/2020

№ 1187141

An Epitaph for S.L.K.

Of late I've been sarcastic, mean and downright rude
I'll have a change of heart... abate my poet's feud
There are more important things, than sparing with a fool
A dufuss geek and moron, and what he writes is stool
I should write an epitaph, a fitting rhyme for his demise
Carve it on his tombstone, for him to read before he dies
So here's my composition, my rhyme of wit and lore
Willfully he's ignorant, I pray God's wrath upon him pour
Here lies a saint of Baal, a shining light of Bel
In Hell he's with his Father, forever there he'll dwell


Author: Elihu Barachel
Date: 17/03/2020

№ 1171187


The morning battlefield lay still and grey,
Its silence broken grimly by the groans
Of wounded, broken, bleeding, dying men.
Then gently, slowly, through that desolate scene
Came an Angel all dress'd in nurses' kit;
She wandered, lovely as a cloud, starched in white,
Giving head unto the maimed and crippled.
"Me, me" a legless soldier feebly called,
More in hope than serious expectation.
What a silly cunt he was.


Author: Edna Sweetlove
Date: 02/03/2020

№ 1170911

This is Not A Love Poem ... It is an Epitaph

Which of your tired angels, or stone-faced prophets, write the epitaphs for those dreams that we sacrificed so tenderly? Is there a meadow
In your heaven, a quiet place apart from the ceaseless rejoicing, where the beauties of what might have been may go to forget the slow
Decay of remorse? I ask this of you, without pity for myself, but rather, sadness for what has become of those feelings and hopes and
Loves that weren't permitted to die a natural death; the hearts that were silenced by betrayals. I haven't forgotten that first
Entrance to your cathedral in the woods; I felt in that moment that I could change the world with nothing but a pen and your love to guide me.
The world it seems, has seen fit to punish my vanity, and rightly so. Or have I finally come to understand that I don't live in a legend or
An epic, have I woken from a fairy tale to understand my own weakness? I wish I had known how green the world was in my youth; perchance
I would not have taken those quiet moments with you for granted. I don't believe in myself, how can I when I have thrown away so much,
Spoiled so much beauty with my ignorance, my need to ask questions of the dreams rather than accept them as blessings from your soul.

epitaph,  love,  poem.

Author: Jon Shierling
Date: 02/03/2020

№ 1164638

An Epitaph On The Marchioness Of Winchester

This rich Marble doth enterr
The honour'd Wife of Winchester,
A Vicounts daughter, an Earls heir,
Besides what her vertues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More then she could own from Earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told, alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darknes, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Bin as compleat as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The Virgin quire for her request
The God that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce-wel-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might discern a Cipress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorsles cruelty,
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:
The haples Babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languisht Mothers Womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen som tender slip
Sav'd with care from Winters nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck't up by som unheedy swain,
Who onely thought to crop the flowr
New shot up from vernall showr;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And those Pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hast'ning funerall.
Gentle Lady may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore
Sweet rest sease thee evermore,
That to give the world encrease,
Shortned hast thy own lives lease;
Here besides the sorrowing
That thy noble House doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Weept for thee in Helicon,
And som Flowers, and som Bays,
For thy Hears to strew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy vertuous name;
Whilst thou bright Saint high sit'st in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after yeers of barrennes,
The highly favour'd Joseph bore
To him that serv'd for her before,
And at her next birth much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the boosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light,
There with thee, new welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.


Author: John Milton
Date: 25/02/2020

№ 1145738

Prologue To An Epitaph

I've never read The Torah, but
I'm reasonably sure
It is a travel guide
For a desert getaway.

I've never dreamed of
Red headed priestesses
Who can move their hips
Like cement mixers.
They probably have sharp teeth and
Slender fingers.

I always thought that
The cosmos would bend down
To give me a dap.
It still may.

I'm full of dark and weird judgement.
All for you.
Sometimes the darkness wanes
While the weirdness lingers.

epitaph,  prologue.

Author: Busbar Dancer
Date: 08/02/2020