Friday, April 8, 2011


The aim of the dirge
Is to purge the heart
Of the urge to dwell on past sorrows.
Helps the mourner think of the morrow
After the desire to reminisce has expired
And memories are no longer bitter-sweet
The soul sprouts wings and leaves its’ dusty feet

No longer taking a look at the hindsight
Cutting off a forelock, drawn to the city of lost children
The mourner sails over to the bright lights
To wrestle with crocodiles
As Isis casts an inscrutable smile.

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