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A soul's vacant shell,
under newly upturned soil.
as amongst these stones
     on mossy tread
I wander rounds
     throughout my head,
I whisper soft,
the names of carved
     and aged glory,
in hopes one day
     far down the line
someone may
     treat me in kind.
cemeteries are my jam, man
Where the dead lie the flowers grow,
The trees shoot tall and the winds blow.
Resting in their eternal peace,
Memories live on and never cease.
Weathered stone and faded names,
At home, broken pictures in broken frames.
The woosh of an aeroplane flys overhead,
To honour their sacrifice and salute the dead.
For they have died so we might be free,
Lives lost inland and those at sea.
For we recall all that they gave,
As we whisper quiet prayers beside the grave.
©️ 2021 Joshua Reece Wylie. All rights reserved.
Inspired whilst reading tombstones of fallen soldiers at Irthlingborough cemetery next to the church. Reading and performing Wilfred Owens war poems at London College of Music first got me interested in the theme of war in poetry.
I had a dream of you and I,
layin' on a dead poet's tomb
playing our song, watchin' the stars
and wishing one would fall into us.
Glistening ‘twixt the earthen beds
and o’er their marbled, granite heads
drifts of pure white fractals spread
to paint with sweet, angelic dread.
For here on chill’d stump, in snow,
before these gathered friends of stone,
I dredge forth my noxious woe;
to bleed in anxious, ram’bling tones.
Footsteps circle through the plot,
traces of my tactless thought,
as from face to face I sought
for answers out of ivory, wrought.
But no such truths could be exhumed
from such ancient, reticent tombs;
and none the wiser, cloaked in gloom,
I fled this terrible commune.
A little rain then
Sun, the wilted flower speaks
Its song of the truth.
Graveyards turn to flowerbeds,
Watch the petals dance with me.
David Smith Jan 17
A quite audience, easily forgotten
The passing of winter rain

Stretch and strain, back to my game
Oblivious once again

Yet your pall remains,
A kiss of mist upon the soul
A sentinel
Of chestnut, oak and magpie’s lair

The cross you bare, a gentle snag
From times when you were elsewhere

A golden wave crashes down
Heavens glory reflected, here

The soft rustle of recent gift
A reminder that we care
Tasha Dec 2020
Angels cry in torment
Twisting and swirling through the thick black clouds
They curl their wings around the
Uncaring gravestones, crying for sanctuary
From their impassive god.
I watch as the reaper leans a hand across my bleeding eyes
And leads me away from the fury of wings
Beating across hollow bones-
As hollow as their halos.
ObsidianDeath Nov 2020

Once upon a midnight screaming
I prayed to the killer in me
And it brought out the killer in you
Drinking from the skulls of my enemies
Don’t you know dead is the new alive?
Found myself in the shadows of the light
Found myself bound by his might
Creeping through the mortuary
Get your gun cause it's getting scary
Croon thy words
In a tune loud.
Wrap me ****
In a white shroud.

Yell thy whine
for my chained soul,
What shall determine
The dead one's parole?

Solace me dear
For death I Fear.
Strange is yet
That All I hear!

Dead one fears
As corse is hurried.
Don't haste to the yard
Where bones are buried!

Since I hear,
Speak to me dear.
As far I am unalive
Azrael won't arrive
Speak to me a lie
Until I die.
Monologue of a corse, hearing people's elegies for his death.
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