Octal Syllabic Verse
Muffled mourning falls on deaf ears
that echo elegiac waves
from a transgressible past life.
Phantoms in an abstract limbo
where the living never enters.
Doctor, what is your prognosis?
I’m sad to say his futures grim
I doubt that he will last a day.
His reasoning is nearly gone
his hapless body skin and bone.
A new found voice sounds in this place
where immortal souls congregate
and faceless face oblivion:
the edge of hell, there’s no escape.