EPITAPH TO A SOUNDING CHIME

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Epitaph to a sounding chime.

Submitted: December 04, 2011

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Submitted: December 04, 2011

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EPITAPH TO A SOUNDING CHIME epitaph to a sounding chime reminiscence of death and all things simplistic in a silent space the dirge of a never ending solitude tends to unfold a sleep that lasts through a tormented age like aged wine fermenting to the untold a confession to a dirge merge, unfold, and smudge to a patient elongated laugh streaming through the cracks, nooks, and hollows to eat a stampeding sorrow softness invades the creative space epitaph to a sounding chime it reverberates and dies the day of the lords remaining unchallenged unchallenged by a no one a nothing to encore a separated grievance a lost halo that covers my eyes and speaks to me of a blackness veiny eyed and twisting and if a fallen cradle of lust ever had a good point to match its sorrow the beginning and ending of a strife knife point dizzy in the self realization those left behind and lost are never vindicated the haves from the have knots an act of charity folds in on itself to whom have we given it all either cradled and soothed into a lulling sleep a mist filled mystified wondering to state its stalemate blankly epitaph to a sounding chime give birth to a backward wayward stance those laden in gold owe nothing to the underlings depraved depraved and pushed into silence a formidable opponent to a scared stark realization pointing the knife to the heart those barely crawling forward a lack thereof in stamina barely breaking the silence un-stung by the honeybees vanity and crippled in a negative crawlspace their cries are unheard and unanswered negligence in the oncoming divine weeping a simpering illusory laugh to a time boasting of freedom freedom from the gripping sneer and to unfold the hell grinding lie to stand beyond the excuse \"lukewarm\" \"whoremongers\" \"monsters\" \"unsaved\" \"sorcerers\" to stand at the door and knock one's self down a gift given in reluctance never comes close to the negative last too nothing would be better to be left to the wolves and eaten alive the substance found in avoiding the in between backwards sullen lie fostering a rising sun shine that never reaches its peak epitaph to a sounding chime


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