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Dame Death Lamenting DEATH, returns, again, in sabled reggae, but an actress in a paradox way, to dispatch a youthful one, a baby, into arms of heaven’s God, not maybe; she internalizes plan, paternal, to do homage to belief, eternal. Her arrival, duly noted daily, fated by eternity so palely, sets a play, despairingly repeated, with enabled encore, ably meted. With her scythe, aside, the reaper rages, axing rye on rye beneath the ages; sent at midnight nightly, midnight, ending, Death refuses rest with duties pending. Slash! The reaper taps on scythe serenely, for a millisecond so routinely; then, again, a slash cross field, betoken, but, again, another tap not broken. From the morning, dewed, to night’s detention, into twilight’s moonlit trough, through mention - in a smitten motion, frozen wryly, Death abets ascension, be it dryly. Dark recesses, writhing long, relentless, focus on their duty bound, repentless, for, beneath Death’s covered shadow, vapored, lies beginning life, forever tapered. None escape, for long, these silent sightings, told in tales of grief and bitter blightings; many march toward destined day, demented, with misgivings matted and lamented. What does matter most, does matter little, under God’s design, a bargain, brittle, half a promise, half, demand, with passion centered on Cartesian plane’s compassion. But, she wearies, not, this Queen, enchanted, being strong at heart by seedling planted, though she does lament the timeline, gapping, conscious of diminished moment, tapping. |
Additional Notes:
One of my imaged poems. Read each line from left to right, ignoring abnormal spacings.
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