Buried alive
Incapacitated
you desperately gasp for air
but can not reach it,
being slowly suffocated
but just not enough to die
but merely to remain in constant dying,
among tortures most unbearable of all,
and all is dead and dying except hope.
It happens every year again.
Cruel winter buries life live,
while every spring there is the miracle again
of resurrection, love reviving, life triumphing;
but the ordeal is the same
each bloody hellish winter
putting you and all life on the rack
to all but kill you off,
just saving a small whiff of life enough
to make the resurrection workably inevitable.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2009-12-09 at 13:08
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