He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain
Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
Of moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
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Comments3After readin' this one by Rupert Brooke, one line that really stuck with me was "An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck." His stuff always makes ya think, ya know? It's got this chilling feel, like your walking through a graveyard. Interesting bit of poetry for sure. Anyway, hope to see more of Brooke's stuff here!
Loved this! Rupert Brooke gets deep, hey? 😮 What's he saying about love?
WOW, THIS ONE REALLY HITS YOU RIGHT IN THE FEELS, DOESN'T IT? BEFORE WE KNOW IT, WE'RE IN A WORLD BEYOND OUR OWN AND IT'S REALLY SOMETHIN ELSE. GOT ME REELING ABOUT THE WHOLE LIFE AND DEATH THING. IT'S A BIT GLOOMY AND STUFF, BUT I GUESS THAT'S WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT, INNIT? I DEFINITELY GOT A CHILL DOWN MY SPINE READING THIS ONE. WAITING EXCITEDLY FOR MORE STUFF LIKE THIS. CAN'T WAIT TO READ WHAT'S NEXT!