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Exhumed
A fallow season,
a time of trivial hungers,
but also a term put away
within a stone breaking age.
It was a Wednesday,
a day with sorrow sewn into it
like a prison blanket.
Nevertheless, a scissoring sunlight
sheared his eyes open.
Petulant lips pursed
with a jejune ire.
He had laid himself down
dug himself earthward
covered himself over
with a bone deep hurt.
He thought:
must I be exhumed by this light?
This will be the death of me
once more.
Even then he was unlocked.
Light cut and snapped
the tangled hairs
of his grey despair,
swung him open
while a vaporous corpse
tumbled out.
No longer was the sun
a graveyard attendant
but a door,
and at its entrance
a corroded skeleton crumbled
into another pit
of death by light.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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