The End.

The End.

A Poem by K. Harding
"

The death of the Philosopher.

"

 This is the end... 

 

The philosopher is dead...


The quill turned loose from his fingers - descended into the dead lands of poetic dysfunction. Ink translated hallucinations. Fashioning percipience into nightmares, innocence into enigmatic psychosis.

 

Empyrean wines contrived from his blood. Arcadian winds twined his breath, resonating anguish through history. Time greeted him like an old friend and grew old together. They become senile together.

 

When time lost its wisdom, the fires no longer burned.

 

Paradise incarcerated the philosopher - for he had no tale to tell. No rhyme burdened his tongue. A forlorn writer whom words had long forgotten. His stories had become the same, developed throughout a planetary life, into silence.

 

The tranquil silence became his asylum, the one to listen to his decaying sanity. Intoxication numbing the sobriety of psychological hysteria. The man had become exactly who he sworn never too. A poet perpetually imprisoned in his own mind.

 

This is the end...

 

The philosopher is dead...

 

Cast his ashes into the waterfalls laden by his beauty. Tuck him in his coffin in the rain, weep no more. His oceans were vast and immortal. He is the wind, the rain and snow. The blue and white fairytale sent to protect. Send him a goodnight kiss; remember his last breath as his lullaby.

 

A sacrificial martyr, beguiling sceneries painted in blood. The pendulum swaying to his silent song, a gesture of respect for an old friend - as time bids farewell to his companion. His stories will echo through the blood of our ancestors, and the wolfs cry. Native tongues will know your name, the lost child of hope.

 

This is the end...

 

But, the philosopher shall live forever.  

© 2016 K. Harding


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Reviews

Very impressive writing K.Wolf, I love the line "When time lost its wisdom, the fires no longer burned". A deep poem of truth, melancholy and sadness. You own a great vocabulary and a polished style with your writing. Richie B.

Posted 6 Years Ago


Deep and somewhat mystical. Lots of big meaningful words too. Great poem.

Posted 6 Years Ago


Wow! The depth of imagery in your words is stunning. The tale is a grand one, that is both parts glory and meditative. I like the words choices along this journey. They resonate in a powerfully oldworld way that really grips and pulls the reader in.

Fantastic ink!
Aaron

Posted 6 Years Ago


Paradise incarcerated the philosopher - for he had no tale to tell. No rhyme burdened his tongue. A forlorn writer whom words had long forgotten. His stories had become the same, developed throughout a planetary life, into silence.

as in poetry so in life. when philosophers and the rest of us get stuck in our heads...I'm dealing with a parent in law with dementia. It not only creates havoc for her - it bleeds into the rest of us and perhaps that is why this one hit home today. I'm not a philosopher but I see the words disappearing ...

Posted 6 Years Ago


The imagery and text painting used in this piece are absolutely stunning. I loved the variety of word choice in this piece, but at times you fell into the use of paralipsis. Try reading the piece out loud to yourself. The emotion you were able to convey through this selection was wonderful, and I very much enjoy your work. Overall, a fantastic piece of writing with a lot of potential for further growth and development/polishing, thank you for sharing :)

Posted 6 Years Ago


I love it.. I need to keep reading it- I'd say try expanding it into a short story.

Posted 6 Years Ago


Gorgeous poem here. I love it. Great work. :)

Posted 6 Years Ago


I do enjoy this poem, but feel as if it could be organized better? These particular lines confuse me: "Time greeted him like an old friend and grew old together. They become senile together. When time lost its wisdom, the fires no longer burned." They don't seem to make sense with the rest of the poem and are a cliched distraction from your purpose. Also, I hate to say it, but the end is very cliched. That being said, the imagery is fantastic and I enjoy your writing style. Good job and keep writing!

Posted 6 Years Ago


The philosopher is an ideal, an archetype. He never physically existed all at once in reality but he exists inside everyone who thinks of him and attempts to emulate. And over time hopefully we can exceed in reality what we regard so highly in abstract. Perhaps that's not the point though, the ideal type never was a thing to be had but a thing to look up to and perpetually elevate as we approach it's peak. Eh, don't tell the overman that.

Personally I think we are only our ideals and standards in our heads... those things don't actually exist anywhere else, not in reality. We are all liars and frauds but usually with the best of intentions. Sometimes not so good intentions depending on which side of it you fall on.

I don't even know what your poem was about; something about dogs fighting raccoons over gambling debts. It was pretty good. The end probably has nothing to do with humans, we are too weak.

Posted 6 Years Ago


I'm an ordinary man. I don't wear suits, vests or ties. I wear jeans, white socks and sneakers. I prefer to read something simple and direct. Obviously you have a list of fans but I'm too basic for your style of writing. I wonder what you would think of something I wrote. If you don't mind, give me a read and tell me exactly what you think.

Posted 6 Years Ago



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Shelved in 1 Library
Added on March 13, 2016
Last Updated on March 13, 2016
Tags: Philosopher, Death, End, Love, Tragedy

Author

K. Harding
K. Harding

United Kingdom



About
Philosopher of the stars. A voice in the choir of scars. Inspired by Tuomas Holopainen & Edgar Allan Poe. more..

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