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Poems about death and dark love poetry are listed on the index of poems

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poems about death
When a child,
I scrambled my way up to ten,
Oblivious to the storms
That lay beyond;
Forced me to bravely contend
With slick infinity
That abhorred any end;
As an adult
I unspooled my skein of time
Assured immortality
Would be guaranteed mine--
Now I know
So much more--
And so much less,
I'll finish up
Is anyone's guess.

poems about struggle
Over the reassuring stone edge
Toward the underside of things,
He questioned
There was really a bottom at all--
The dark, moody river was not
the Seine of travel brochures
But the keeper of a graveyard,
Everything that time and grief
Wear out and discard--
How many lives had
Their pivotal
Like pitiful Javert--

It was not guilt that
Had finally triumphed,
But an unspeakable emptiness--
Left after
The idea
That held
The fabric
Of his
Devoured itself--
Leaving the hollowed out
Human frame
Still breathing;

At the bottom of the river
A thought took root:
Without that essential
We were all done for--
Vanquished from ourselves--


The most heinous of crimes--
Worse even than
A cold axe in the neck,
So his father had decreed
Lying on his hospital bed
Staring into a void--

Betrayal of one's soul--

He heard something--
Glancing wide behind,
Saw himself proverbial shirt in hand,
Spluttering through the back door
Just as
The front door
Promising himself again
This would be the last--
It was too easy to make promises
To oneself--
To cling to imitation
In the absence of anything else;

He crossed the bridge
Just as the sun cut
A sharp slit
Into the firm-lipped gray--
A part of that same sky
Over his homeland, and yet
Rejecting, aloof--
The daylight hurting,
The night still not
Letting go--
Its hooks in his tongue,
His eyes
His nose
His groin--

C'est un jardin!
A gendarme surfaced
In his eyes
Flailing her fins,
Gulping air,
The Eiffel Tower sticking
Out of
The back of her head;
C'est un jardin--as if he had
Not heard the first time;
Like a dog,
He stepped off
An ordinary
Bit of grass--
His tattered tourist map in hand,
Je ne savais pas,
Je suis désolé

He watched her swim away,
Shrink into a dot.

Had he lost himself here,
Or finally found himself?
A foreign town
Is unforgiving,
It shows us too clearly
Who we are
He shouldered his backpack
And fled to Berlin--
There were bridges there
Too, and lots of museums
And streets
To do;

In a small, stale room
With its single uncurtained
Looking out
To the ghastly corridor
Where concrete slabs and
Had once tried to fit
The human spirit,
He dreamt
Of Javert
Looking down into his life--
The hungry river
Pulling him in,
And then a moment later,
Spitting out
A sliver of light
That electrified the air--

He woke to the fresh breath
Of moonlight
Filling the room,
And inside
A black piece of shale
Had broken loose--
A new idea was being born.

spaeer1 spaeer2 spaeer3 spaeer4

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