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The Long Burial

With a strange, strangled gasp, we gulp the cold air Crisscrossed by bats in their mad zigzag dash From out of this cave, out from under this trash That suffocates us, up our noses and hair; Blind in the pitch-black dark, we make out the glare Of bright, shining people who turn into ash, And ashen-gray minds that sparkle and flash; The death of the light is a tangled affair. So we stumble on, tripping from day to day, Seeking sun in these pits of shadow and strife, Nodding and smiling even as we decay; As we go on walking the edge of this knife, It dawns on us that this anguish will stay Till the last shovelful of this burial called "life".

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

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Date: 1/19/2018 3:32:00 PM
I'm not one much for rhyme. The trick is to make the rhymes organic within the poem, not an afterthought just for the sound. This poem keeps the reader on the edge. I especially like the irony in the title and last line.
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Oliveira Avatar
Henrique Oliveira
Date: 1/23/2018 7:58:00 AM
Thanks, Stephen!