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Plight of the Wight
Never again to know fresh air,
Combing worms from my matted hair.
No one remains who’d ever care —
Tied to my grave, this lonesome baire.
I must escape the sun’s harsh glare,
Tread carefully down crumbling stair,
Descend into my crypt just there,
Where I sit alone in dark despair.
Upon my ancient worm-eaten chair,
Inside my vaulted charnel house lair,
Such a sad and accursed affair —
Never to rest, always aware.
This kind of death is so unfair:
No converse, no song, no whispered prayer.
A thousand lifetimes in disrepair,
Unattended, solus, solitaire.
Harshest sentence beyond compare,
Caught in this endless undeath snare.
Naught to do but eternity stare —
And comb the damn worms from my hair.
Copyright ©
Danny Derden
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