I Keep the Grave at Bay
I keep the grave stone hoisted,
But an inch above my chest,
My body prone,
Neath heavy stone,
Anon I groan,
A plaintive moan,
My soul a mournful guest.
I cannot free the tether,
Nor reduce the heft of stone,
This hell of mine,
So clandestine,
A sombre shrine,
Wherein I pine,
But helpless buried bone.
I feel the coldness seeping,
Like a cancer through my soul,
I shudder through,
With death in view,
The stars of blue,
Cannot renew,
The part that made me whole.
I tremble at the morning,
Tis a prophet speaking doom!
Another day,
To while away,
The dawning ray,
That sees me pray,
For egress from the gloom.
The dew drops are my vision,
I consult the crystal balls,
The prism hue,
The gate I view,
A telling clue,
A subtle cue,
Prophetic timing falls.
I speak in lonely whispers,
And my thoughts are waxing mad,
The grave and I,
Below the sky,
Condemned to die,
As angels fly,
In heavens that I had.
The vista of forever,
Is forsaken and forlorn,
The winds patrol,
This grassy knoll,
So endless droll,
A bitter bowl,
In years pronouncing scorn.
adamdaniel 