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Burying the Dead

Poetry By: AmunetsApple
Poetry


I would be interested in your opinions


Submitted:Nov 26, 2006    Reads: 67    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


Burying the dead

These indifferent stones
marked stoic and named ice
shiver in my December sun.

These stark mossy reeds
run in mocked silence
of what has become
since the passing of time
has undone
the once supple
flowers huddled in crumpled heaps,
deep within a puddle of
reign upon your breast, as if
they are searching for some
rest of warmth that once beat
there within those boundries.

They'll find no comfort where
the rows are lonely and long
no recognition for the Robin's song
once he's of mind to share.

Only the rustle of leaves
will care
to be heard by the
occasional passerby from
the land of the living as each
look for their own weathered
stone to weep upon.

Devotion has gone so long
devoid of pomp or circumstance,
without a backwards glance,
as dead and as still as my
phlegmatic night 's become.

No hope for rescue,
no beguiling smile will melt,
this frigid hardness I lay upon...
nothing to stay this hand;
no reprieve from it's
darkest cup...
Those promises of forever, as
empty as those severed heads
awaiting a restful peace,
patiently for their turn,
whilst she's still out about
burying her dead.





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