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Death

It creeps,
The slow caress.
Fingers.
The false dark deads the hands.
The cold.

It fades,
The light draws a shadow
Voices become whispers
The soul's mind to eternity
I am.
I am no more.

His hand grips firm
My name murmered
in the stilling silence
The turmoil quiets
The icey chasm opens
The last beat
Entombed in the silent Void.

Neha 2013/08/18

Editing stage: 

Comments

Interesting how we always think of death almost the same.
For me the last stanza was quite enough. It really stands for the poem.
Thanks for sharing.

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this one! I have a little trouble with the line that goes: "The false dark, deads the hands." Maybe you might say:
The false dark grips the hands? Other than that one little bobble I thought it very well written and the theme came through very nicely. ~ Gee

There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place.

The image I wanted to convey was the slow progression of death, the actual progression vs. the finality of a "grip". Any ideas around this train of thought?

author comment

what you need to do, is to look at some of the combinations of words that you used. [Stilling silence]?
[turmoil quiets]? Here's the words that I would use with turmoil and silence.

settling silence
turmoil gone
and use echoes instead of entombed.
Just suggestions, you may find better ways. ~ Gee

There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place.

Another journey starts as this one ends, wasn't there a saying about:- Go silently into the dark,?
I can't recall the rest.. just the tiny piece that Gee picked up otherwise a Very Good write , Yours Ian.T

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