deepundergroundpoetry.com
6224:
The day was beautiful .I began my walk, for among the living noone to talk
I headed to the cemetary, collect thoughts within the sanctuary
I didnt realize the time, as the gates closed at nine
Locked inside the fence, I found I must take rest.
There was a moseleum in sight,a place to shelter from the night
I sat just outside the door, thinking of families nevermores
The rain began to fall, froml a distance I heard the voice call
I followed the moonbeam light, between headstones just to right.
The grass was slippery wet, the ground began to set.
Thunder crash roared, the earth shook
Maybe it was a dream, maybe I mistook .I took a second look
The grave opened wide.I saw my muse there by my side.
Many years long past of life meant to last.
I asked him of his memoirs, all the words he had written
About thoughts he took to the grave; to all his Annabelle he gave
He told me of that fatal time , the days of old, how the ground is so cold
He told me of the Raven knocking on his cellar door .
He reminded me to love before there's a nevermore
The Sun began to rise , just over the hillside
The ground dried ; where the spirit of the poet still resides.
28 August 2013 ARHJ
I headed to the cemetary, collect thoughts within the sanctuary
I didnt realize the time, as the gates closed at nine
Locked inside the fence, I found I must take rest.
There was a moseleum in sight,a place to shelter from the night
I sat just outside the door, thinking of families nevermores
The rain began to fall, froml a distance I heard the voice call
I followed the moonbeam light, between headstones just to right.
The grass was slippery wet, the ground began to set.
Thunder crash roared, the earth shook
Maybe it was a dream, maybe I mistook .I took a second look
The grave opened wide.I saw my muse there by my side.
Many years long past of life meant to last.
I asked him of his memoirs, all the words he had written
About thoughts he took to the grave; to all his Annabelle he gave
He told me of that fatal time , the days of old, how the ground is so cold
He told me of the Raven knocking on his cellar door .
He reminded me to love before there's a nevermore
The Sun began to rise , just over the hillside
The ground dried ; where the spirit of the poet still resides.
28 August 2013 ARHJ
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