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This Posthumous Life
I do not know whether to feel or to leave;
Whether to love or to grieve.
These are not the lines I rehearsed
To recite in this posthumous life;
All clad in yesterday’s mold,
To say I only understand
The death rattle of my intentions
While the orchestra fades to sweetness.
When the stage was set anew,
And the light obscured my view--
Entombed by unforgotten times,
And at one with the prop I became
I yearned to play the role of your shelter.
But I could be no more than a grave,
Shallow as a dying sky
Below a celestial plague.
The curtain fell upon the scene
As though the act had never been.
I was so afraid to let go
Of the rhythm of my suffocation.
I held a voice in the choir--
So long ago that it seems like now.
And I think I am far too weak
To fool myself this time.
© 2021 Marten Hoyle
Whether to love or to grieve.
These are not the lines I rehearsed
To recite in this posthumous life;
All clad in yesterday’s mold,
To say I only understand
The death rattle of my intentions
While the orchestra fades to sweetness.
When the stage was set anew,
And the light obscured my view--
Entombed by unforgotten times,
And at one with the prop I became
I yearned to play the role of your shelter.
But I could be no more than a grave,
Shallow as a dying sky
Below a celestial plague.
The curtain fell upon the scene
As though the act had never been.
I was so afraid to let go
Of the rhythm of my suffocation.
I held a voice in the choir--
So long ago that it seems like now.
And I think I am far too weak
To fool myself this time.
© 2021 Marten Hoyle
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