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— nivi; my fetish is to go to war (via authornivi)
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unknown // ashe vernon // anne carson // valzhyna mort
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Harvest's Lament
I do not come with malice, nor the theatrics of hooded dread— only the quiet click of scales balancing, the hush between was and was not.
They call me cruel, yet I am kinder than time: I take the trembling hand of the cancer-riddled, lead the soldier from his screaming trench, kiss the fevered brow last.
No one thanks me for this.
I have watched lovers clutch at chests as if hearts could be stanched like wounds, seen mothers bargain with empty air— "Take me instead" (as if I were not already there for them too).
The weight is not in the scythe but in the lingering: the way a widow's breath lingers on a pillow, how a name lingers on stone, how I must linger at every bedside while they beg gods who never answer.
I am the only promise kept. The only truth that does not lie. And when at last you take my hand, you'll understand— I was never the end, only the mercy of no longer waiting for it.
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Battle at The Lizard, c.1940 - oil on canvas. ― Théodore Gudin (French, 1802-1880)
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Monks in a monastery courtyard, Storm over a Lake in the Background (1856) Oil on canvas. ― Franz Ludwig Catel (German, 1778-1856)
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I Ð A (Water of transfiguration) by Brynjar Agustsson
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Juansen Dizon, i am the architect of my own destruction
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