I love in life But do so at the paradoxical philosophy people modernly reside within... Memento Mori: my handwriting curls boldly under the force of it's own Rigor Mortis. Memento Mori: my voice recalls ten times a day. This next sentence is crafted from oxymoron,  I am aware, but it holds bearing: Memento Mori, in order to Memento Vivere.  Whether Death be dressed in beautiful swaggers  of photographs of painted pupils and stands in sepia, Or a sterling charm of a woman  looking into her sockets of the soul,  Or the beads conjured from  remains of a loved one  (circling around and  around the pulse they no longer possess), Or the dolphins embracing the ashes  of the father, Or the beauty of an articulated  bone structure of a cat Or the gloves cut from prime pieces  of inked flesh from our Uncle Jerry -  We all have our trinkets to hold... We all have our own words and phrases but  (Resembling Rigor Mortis in this fashion) The true words are all so stale and stable in their stationary station,   Memento Mori -- For life is short, In this way -- Memento Vivere. 

This poem is about: 
Our world
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