I Keep Thinking About How It Feels As If We Have Developed Ourselves An Obsession With "healing" These

skeletons

The Road Goes Ever On and the Misty Mountains song (from chapters 16 and 18 of my comic adaptation of The Hobbit.) anyway: the symbolism of the parallels between these two poems ;-;. [Find links to all my projects here!]

concept: a death god that is actually surprisingly supportive and on the side of the good guys, supporting actions and promoting policies that will lead to the kingdom growing and thriving instead of being destroyed, because the more the kingdom grows, the more people there are, and the more people there are the more people will eventually  die, and when you’re an immortal god of death, you know there’s no need to rush. you’ll get them all in the end

Why

Why do we jump

Before we can see

Why do we fly

Before we can leap

Why take the risk

If all we will see

Is the rushing reality

Of all those lost dreams?

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Kate Baer, from And Yet: Poems; “Idea”

[Text ID: “I will enjoy this life. I will open it like a peach in season, suck the juice from every finger, run my tongue over my chin. I will not worry about clichés or uninvited guests peering in my windows. I will love and be loved. Save and be saved a thousand times. I will let the want into my body, bless the heat under my skin. My life, I will not waste it. I will enjoy this life.”]

I love this scene so much 🤣🥑

Sometimes I like to stare into the face of death.

It awakens a part of me I'd typically rather stay hidden.

A part of me that wishes I was in it's place,

Rotting away slowly,

Unaware of my body as it withers away,

Becoming one with the earth

as I'm somewhere on the other side.

Anyone know the artist? For clarity, the painter, not the writer.

We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.

— Mahmoud Darwish