Dirge

The Dirge shall follow the malady.
An itinerant phantom; shuffling dirt.
There shall be no cure on this land for me.
Indelibly dead - in hell or on earth.
So
Wrap me
betwixt crimson satin.
Place coppers by two 'pon my face.
Naught,
 shall be ,
the home which I've sought,
  in nothing
I've
  be-got my place.

Abandon me
under the willow tree.
Let roots, wrap round, limp frame.
Siphoning life,
within
my ribcage,
bearing fruits which bare my name.

Bury me under the pines.

In life I was but
going under.
Allow all the worms
to slurp through rot veins
and call
my name out
amidst thunder.

Entomb darling things
  'neath the lake.
Dalliance, with life, is done.
Impious shadows, lurk with me now
Gripping soul,
Gripping flesh,
and
my son.

Author's Note

Please enjoy.

Reviews

[CHRIS ANDES]

this is so mythological
like the fruit and the willow tree
I really enjoy this
=]

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed this tale. Like a Dante's tale into hell.
"So
Wrap me
betwixt crimson satin.
Place coppers by two 'pon my face."
The dark tale led to a bad ending. Thank you for the outstanding poem.
Coyote