Death's Cold Hand
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Forbearance ... I beg you ...
Must you squeeze - I the oak, you the stays, closing?
Is it not enough, yet, that your frigid fingers wrap my being,
That you and your legion have the last word of ALL words??
Must you tighten like a vise at every mention of you?!?
Your dim visage, naught but unbound and black ...
(Ever dancing behind corners, to the music of sad silence),
Grows heavy and horrid ... as I draw nigh.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge 1 - April, 2019 - It's All About 8" Poetry Contest, Sponsor: Dear Heart.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2019
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