Comatose

Quemis

A Throng of whispers long and sharp
Calms with thorns and rhyme
Loss the only promise made
To pass the weighted time

Never-mind the muted bones
Abandoned on the road
A holy proof of purpose
A threat to gently goad

Foggy songs the specters sing
Of all that's gone to rust
Cold guilt for old failure
Dead love and dreams of dust

Blood and need and suicide
Sing louder down the way
Now wake up from your sleeping
Or join the ghosts in clay

  • Author: Quemis (Offline Offline)
  • Published: October 28th, 2020 13:05
  • Comment from author about the poem: ...
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 38
  • Users favorite of this poem: jarcher54
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Comments1

  • jarcher54

    Loss is the only promise made, well stated. Quite a litany of memorable, frightful images. The more I reread this one the more I like it. I might add that it has an almost playful silliness just below the surface, like that choir of specters chanting foggy songs... Happy All Souls' Day I guess, or as we call it down here in South Texas, El Dia de los Muertos.

    • Quemis

      Thank you so much. Day of the dead indeed.

      : )



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