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Strangers in time - Poetry Group

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In a few decades, maybe less, maybe more, each one of us will die, one by one.

The ones you care about may be by your side, but whether you breathe your last in the sterile bed of a hospital or at the scream of an incoming train, you will enter the darkness alone.

They will visit your grave frequently at first, telling you stories and crying softly how much they wish you were there, but it'll be directed at a piece of rock, not at you deep beneath the dirt, at the bottom of the sea, or scattered to the winds.

But the visits will become less frequent, as they themselves start to move on.

Eventually they will die too, along with everyone who once saw you living or heard your voice.

One day nobody will visit your grave. It will be left there, overlooked by strangers as one of many in a quiet field.

Perhaps the last trace of your existence will last for decades, centuries, even millenias. But even the great pyramids won't last forever. Your rock will erode, crumble, and fade.

You will be no more than a piece of fiction, once told but forgotten and lost in an infinite book of time.

If there is an afterlife,
of all people who once lived and will live,
how hard would it be to find someone you know?

To find someone who was even alive at the same time as you?
Who would be able to share the memories of your era,
speak the language after it was invented or before it was forgotten,
laugh about the same celebrities,
and cry about the same tragedies?

We are all less strangers than we think.


sorta gloomy . . . .


gloomy but in away true if you have no idea about what waits for us after life, which non of us can ever be sure until it happens.

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