Site of Life

Catacombs are reaching out to drag me.

Under and under, struggling to breathe,

against what I am, I howl a plea.

Sweat soaked, bedraggled, and plotting,  I seethe.

 

The dead will receive what their wills deny:

Whether engulfed in hatred or full blithe,

both, fairy tales, imagined to get by.

Incessant nothingness, gifts of the scythe.

 

When I die, I weep at the site of Life.

I remember, home I am with love, rife.

 

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