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dead to…

May 29, 2014

dead to this place

a phony, disgrace

better times to chase

on which to firmly base.


dead to this place

it’s soulless embrace

hoping for some space

from its blank, ugly face


dead to this place

its stifling ways

picking up the pace

always me that pays


dead to this place

and all it contains

time for a new race

no time to explain


dead to the world

all its myriad of lies

to a ball tightly curled

as whizzing passed, it flies


dead to it all

decay, destruction, life

anxious to recall

a time without strife


dead to myself

the me trapped inside

long a source of wealth

no longer safe to reside


dead to other persons

source of pain and deceit

each relationship worsens

no need to repeat.


dead to my maker

if such a one there be

and the undertaker:

from death itself I flee.


dead to the birds

that sing in the trees

nothing to be heard

except adulterous pleas


dead to my body

my legs, my arms

a form quite shoddy,

not a source of calm


dead to this post

this poem of decay

dead to the host

no more left to say.


Note: I wrote this poem some time ago, but it is a truth that comes back to my life periodically. Life is too oppressive, only being dead to things can can free me from the oppressiveness of life that always builds up over time.



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