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Last Grave On The Left

At peace, of life bereft in the last grave on the left where wilting weed and musty bloom cloud the legend on the tomb. Words in chiselled grey bear false witness every day; acid rain a solemn screen when every night was Halloween. Thunderous drums roll near, lightning jagged, forked and clear; marching men and daily bread echo sacrosanct and dead. In plywood boxes my friends sleep out of mind and buried deep; pray for me throughout the fall, the one who never sleeps at all…

Copyright © | Year Posted 2005




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