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God’s Acre

Cavity, grey, capped black
martyred; leaves straying the
trellising lines of divination,
as the sepulcher dreams
in suspended animation

Hollow, temperamental vagabond
breeze, whisking through the whistling
stills of time; timid, ancient and frozen
in a necropolis spanning each our
many never atonable compromises

A cricked charnel lingers to the imaginal
funerary’s cloaked within

Lament the songs we’ve yet to sing
Lament the words we’ve forgot to find

but late it may or may not be
yet time…is it ever
truly on our side


About hobgoblin2011

I'm a poet and aspiring screenwriter/songwriter with a passion for film, art, photography, philosophy and heavy metal. I love reading, mainly non-fiction, comic books, graphic novels, myth and reference. Family always comes first for me. I'm a proud father to two wonderful pups and two curious cats. I'm also a glutton for punishment aka the life of being a diehard Buffalo Bills and Sabres fan.

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