AND YET TO DIE
What penance reeks of the foul odor of life,Where once he stood, Now is departed,
Does the emptiness alone mark his trials,
And the plunder of which was his soul,
Remain!,
What trick in the light does reflect what was lost,
That I too bare the scars,
Seemingly a witness of what is and shall be,
Where as my wrist were bound, my voice silenced,
Mine sight deprived of light,
I will lie in the shallows of the earth,
Least I wander the night, Searching,
Asking of answers as to where I also went wrong,
Forsaken, Always betrayed, Falsely accused,
Done with it, Gone!,
Least I again show my spirit, Thus to rot an eternity,
Pleading for the actions of the right,
Left to the despair of that which would hold me back,
Misjudged by colors, Sound and sense, Left with none,
But desire!,
Yet without love, Love found, Never to hold,
Left a taste on my lips, First sweet turned bitter with loss,
Sleep, A type of death has found me, Without dying,
A visage foretold, A dream, Forlorn desires of a torn life,
A burden gone,
Death, So poorly maligned,
The bite of which sinks so deeply,
Offers so little,
Shall comfort me in it's cloak,
I will rest within it's folds, Hidden and secure,
Never to wake..
Richard E. Cartledge PHOENIX 10/24/10
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