Posted in What Pegman Saw

The Art of Dying

There’s a certain beauty to life alone.
A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own.
I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days.
Those things were never ours anyway.
It’s funny …
The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt.
At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing.
Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out.
Humans can die from any number of ailments …
A common cold to a lightening strike,
Historic rejection or morbid curiosity,
It’s what makes us the same.
At least that’s what they say.
Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.

My shadows frolic through the roaring break.
They toss their hands to the wind
And dance the steps to heaven.
I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.


Word Count: 147

A write for
What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.

Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.

Posted in Word Prompt

The Subtlety of Dying (Repost)

This was originally posted in Sept 2017. I was working on something else that’s been floating around my head and started thinking about this. The prompt at the time was thorny, the RDP prompt today is brace

What did it feel like?
Dying I mean?
Was it cold?
Or wet?
Kind of like being born again?
Was it light,
Or dark?
Or maybe a bit of both?
Did you know then,
When it happened I mean?
Did you see God?
Heaven and Hell?
Or was it just space and time,
All melding together in one?

The sweet soul gives a wispy smile,
Dying, her voice echoes,
Well, I do remember that well.
Momma told us it would be ok,
It wouldn’t hurt at all.
But it was kinda like falling,
Your stomach flies to your throat
And down to your toes,
Except it’s all at once.
Then you land,
And it’s kinda like landing
In your grandmother’s old roses,
When you fly over the handlebars
For the very first time.
It’s all excitement and adrenaline.
That is until you land,
Then it’s kinda thorny.

Posted in Word Prompt

Dying Days

I love the moment of evening
When the day clings with increasing desperation
Painting the sky in smoky pinks and hazy grays
With a bleary brush of dying days.
Perhaps it says much about me
That I would prefer to watch
The slow extinguish of the day’s flame
Than the brilliant lighting
After the darkest hours.
How can it be
That someone comes to love
The descent into night,
So much more than the rescue
From seemingly endless blight?
Maybe there’s no fear of the dark
When the stars are so clear
And a million galaxies streak across the sky
In all brilliant colors only visible in those moments
After the day has died.


Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch!

Posted in Word Prompt

The Subtlety of Dying

WordPress Daily Prompt – Thorny

What did it feel like?
Dying I mean?
Was it cold?
Or wet?
Kind of like being born again?
Was it light,
Or dark?
Or maybe a bit of both?
Did you know then,
When it happened I mean?
Did you see God?
Heaven and Hell?
Or was it just space and time,
All melding together in one?

The sweet soul gives a wispy smile,
Dying, her voice echoes,
Well, I do remember that well.
Momma told us it would be ok,
It wouldn’t hurt at all.
But it was kinda like falling,
Your stomach flies to your throat
And down to your toes,
Except it’s all at once.
Then you land,
And it’s kinda like landing
In your grandmother’s old roses,
When you fly over the handlebars
For the very first time.
It’s all excitement and adrenaline.
That is until you land,
Then it’s kinda thorny.