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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

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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

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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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