Poetry, if you want to call it that

Hand reached down from heaven

No more screaming in my head

No pain, am I better? Or am I finally dead


Moon misted in the sky

Blue light on the snow

Wind blowing hard across the field, it’s got somewhere to go


Spend all my time waiting for that weight to fall

Time is running faster, tick tock it’s racing on

Measured out in bits and pieces, is this really all?


Soon the wind will blow again

For someone else, not me

I’ll be dead and buried, a faded memory.





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