I write
All I do not know,
For the libraries have left me
Of their books,
Of their words.
I am a sentence too late
To whisper a farewell in your ear.
You came in a moment,
To disappear off the clock,
As I counted each second backwards.
Your breath sails down your throat,
Swallowed in every edge,
Disdained by every pledge.
Your eyes
Did not close, for the book,
As each chapter was written without much
Emotion,
I merely set sail upon the pages
To be lost in fear and blankness.
My uncertainty
Became your security.
My blue
Became your gray.
Your eyes
Sculpt out demise
While death's veil covers you,
I cannot be near, though to feel inferior.
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Powerful and honest words dear poet. When death comes for us. She cannot be stopped.
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Thank you, John. 🙂
Yes. Such a force does not judge us. It merely takes us, embraces us, while all our stories are merely chapters of a different life. Everything goes into the same book… I suppose. The same “tube” or the same “place”, so to speak.
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Reblogged this on johncoyote and commented:
Powerful words shared by a talented writer.
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Thanks for that.
I wish I could re-blog your posts, though I’m not too sure you would get much exposure. I haven’t as many followers as you. 🙂
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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