Death by Poetry


I walked in the woods today, the seasons have changed

Amongst the stillness of the tress and the slumbering air

I touched myself in surprise for I thought the poet in me had died.

A death not as romantic as dying itself

A vision where you hold hands with others around you

All your sins forgiven, they cling to you as if you are a phoenix.

My death (if you like) was dust and matter

the stench of a rabid mind, infested by boredom

Perhaps it was the life of a nondescript pattern

Countless back and forth, repeat, rewind the acts of living.

That in the end the chores that involve life

Strangled my breath and filled the hours with dread

Slowly I became an alien

And the beloved words failed me.

2 responses »

  1. This one came from the heart, wanted to make the flow work better but on second thoughts decided to leave it as it can see it is quite stiff and unpolished (for lack of a better description).

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