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The animals and the birds
do just fine
the trees
either sway in the breeze
stay as still as ghosts

At the core of my being
lies a sepulcher
that traps
rays of the sun
and holds them
in its dark evil heart

The sweet
inner dynamism
trundles to a halt
and is sucked into
the heart of

A deviated, decadent
is mapped through
death which parades
as life

Everything feels
like death
smells like death
and tastes like

A dense, heavy cloud
settles over me
becoming my shroud

My epitaph
is my life
my death -
my liberation

Editing stage: 


but at the end line needs to get away for a bit

like a lot of professions
big holidays.
on call all the time
its like death
never there for fam..
but a scarecrow
has its visitors
sees what it needs
the birds and wildlife
come around

love your use of words
"the sweet inner dynamism..etc"
i greatly admire this!

as poets we may see each
other on the trail
liberating our watfchful existance
through words!

thenk you!

for your discerning read. Especially your last stanza - so true.


Leonard Daranjo

"When the waiting stops, the living begins"

author comment

gnawing your grains and tapping at the straw fer a brain....
thanks leonard!

as is the subject matter. I have no suggestions to make.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Your comment means a lot.


Leonard Daranjo

"When the waiting stops, the living begins"

author comment
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