Death Without Any Words
When you roll out the folds of your failed years,
and carefully trace back your choices,
each morning that you stepped into the shackles of life,
closed to the torment of voices.
When you lay down for a final time to rest,
and stale visions turn out the lights,
what stream of empty memories will climax with your death,
without any words save for last rites.
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Chilling, Mark. I must be doing something wrong, and somehow know it! I found this poem unsettling; close into the bone.
ReplyDeleteVery bleak - the first line is a ripper. Not applicable to me of course - I've got my folds all figured!
ReplyDeleteVery nice Mark. I've come to a point in my life and poetry that I can now write about dark periods without actually being in one. I have many memories of bleak and desolate times that I can pull from and even write with empathy when seeing a friend or loved one experiencing grief or remorse or regret. I really like your work Mark.
ReplyDeleteGuys, thanks for the feedback.
ReplyDeleteWow. wow. I really liked 'stepped into the shackles of life'.It so clearly says that Life is/was the torture. The sheer difficulty of just getting up to live.
ReplyDelete