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The Grave

It’s cold, impersonal, like the far-reaching sky,
Brown and compact, yet infinitely empty in meaning.
By whose grace, by whose will do tears fall?
Their descent is ephemeral,
But the reservoir inside depletes,
Leaving emptiness to begin its forsaken, scarring drought.
Why so ominous?
Why so unrelenting?
Why so calamitous?
Such an enigma encaged into deathly but cherished stone,
Its workings quenched of change, repose, and hope.
Invocations have lost my faith,
Not because I find Him false,
But that my words sound like a void,
Like begging to encompass substance.
I implore the pristine wind, quiet, resonant, solemn,
Eternal, living with vibrant breath, yet evasive.
Like the wisp of extinguished time.
I implore, asking for what cause this pestilence remains,
What multitude feeds this disease,
What words I muster to explain the visage in my head.
Shall I say love?
I’m prone to illustrious romanticism.
But such thought reminds me of lonesome apprehension,
Of broken memories,
Of that profane sight of pallor.
Life, I call for it to besiege my mind.
I petition its impediments, its slackness, its idiocy.
Let dubious intentions become the norm once more,
For I cannot remain unscathed by this sight,
By this gray monument to haunting fields fashioned in phantasmagoria.
I pluck from this ground of ghosts a flower,
And in it, I glance at brooding misery in its utmost beauty.
This day.
This sky.
This ground.
They will leave, but the flower will remain.
I pull off a petal, and the flower shakes.
The flower still stares.





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