After

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  • firepixie
  • is getting ready for work, maybe i'll have more poems tomorrow...

After

holes in existence;
gaping open to swallow the unsuspecting.
black to the point of the darkest purple.
 mouths to the embodied hell of earth.
the passerby are unaware
and so they go without a thought.
they cannot escape the unknown.
tar-like blood on the floor of the entrance
and its suction makes it nearly inescapable
for the paws of the unwary.
meaning the weary, who are the frequenters,
have no chance.
and they are driven down with the gravity
of guilt.
anguish and pain, weeping wailing and gnashing of
 teeth.
the weary traveler of life's path is unexpectedly
driven from existence
and into the suffocating abyss beyond.

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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

firepixie’s Poems (11)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Time Wins 2
Getting Through Life 0
Sometimes Verses Always 1
Forms of Travel 1
By Myself 2
Somewhere in the Sun 1
The Room 0
Something Like That 1
Littered 0
After 0
Lonely 1