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beneath lies the voice, the heart, the soul, the sounds of the dying
Dementia
There are times when the ground covers me
and the
grass dies
over my head;
its roots rotting entanglements in my mind
leaving me smothered and confused.
I am muted into silence of words while I struggle,
scratching my way through the cold, consuming darkness.
Blindness, for I dare not open my eyes heavy with clay.
Deaf, except for my own voice screaming inside my soul.
Alone in my bizarre condition, left for dead, while I suffer
death; emptiness never comes nor does salvation from this
never-ending suffering.
Watch closely.
Keep your eyes to the ground.
My fingers reach for light so that I may rise above my grave
and bloom again.
See my fingertips and the dirt beneath my nails?
Poetry by Kathy Lockhart
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Written on 2009-12-11 at 02:52
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