The Wake
Throw in a wild card
pluck at the muslin
she died they cried
grief running.
Death mask
and death masked
all sensations
of the living.
Ricocheting bullets,
hole in the heart
gapes, letting in mourning,
morning cries, at dawn.
Pour out
outpouring of tears,
anguish shouts
filling echoes of silence.
Poetry by shells
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Written on 2010-10-04 at 01:02
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John Ashleigh |
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