"sepulture" poems
1519
The Dandelion’s pallid tube
Astonishes the Grass,
And Winter instantly becomes
An infinite Alas—
The tube uplifts a signal Bud
And then a shouting Flower,—
The Proclamation of the Suns
That sepulture is o’er.
10.6k
I'm a scapegoat, sacrificed
for all the slang and slander;
the sinister sinners scar me, sickeningly.
I'm bathing in this sombreness;
my appetite is spoiled by the solemn wind.
The future is sullied by those savages;
now my outlook is sullen.
I'm squirming, succumbing
to the suffocation.
My body and heart separate,
and tomorrow you can plan my sepulture.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC
I singe with a hertly lud whan ycham herty,
And I arme whan singinge is ne ynewe.
Carole whan my corage blissieth,
And I shal deye whan his blase deyeth.
Druerie shal be his a-brune billets.
A stable blase that shal sustene my spyrakles.
A schrewe destroyere that kesseth so dimliche.
A þeauful kempe with an as-spire swerde.
Gostes of i-þank als ouer my vingeres.
Al-only dulce conceiptes fletene in my gostes.
Sumdel real cannot be als amaddinge.
Sumdel real cannot be te-tealte!
Is the mannish þonc als mase and puissant
Sweuenen of suic a selkout conand?
Dest Moder Folde cune of hire child?
Hire misty doter who berne and bilde?
The hoom is not where the herte is.
The herte is the hoom bote motif
The herte, the hoom, the ende, and the sepulture.
A luft who is the mest derure in the Folde.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
I am awake I think,
from this human sleep of mine.
But the bed I slept on
was cozy and soft,
such that, I plunged deep, into
the dungeons of slumber.
And here I lie,
on this wooden plank.
And two others,
one on either side,
blocking my view.
Thusly, this might not be real.
No, it’s not.
My eyes see blood
like the sun’s against them.
And my lids laden
with an unseen force,
or perhaps,
I’m scared to open them
wide, into the sun.
Now, that I’ve opened them,
the world appears lucid.
I see my family, elegantly dressed.
And my beloved!
O what a treat to the eye she is
in that dark dress of her’s.
And the shimmer in her eyes!
Oh wait! Is that a tear drop
on her winsome cheeks?
And why’s my family glum?
Is this a sepulture I’m standing at?
But whose?
He might have been
someone close to us.
I’ve missed a grave news
due to this nap of mine.
I don’t yet know, if it’s good
to be ignorant of the tiding.
But it just might not be civil yet
to ask, “Who died?”.
The coffin’s being nailed.
I’ll ask her, aside,
when this tempest settles.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
mourns in the form of lilac fields and ginger gardens;
emanating spectacular sights, exuding savorous scents,
witness true hearts blooming, singing for the silent and the dead
winds beckon;
to submission straight stalks succumb
gales graze over but vanish, stilling staled souls
as if they have never been touched before
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
Our undercroft had housed our dead
Unseen, in gloomy sepulture.
But pagan chieftains much prefer
Barrows, where height can show instead.
And the busier departments need
Those lowest levels for their work.
Glib passers-by avoid that murk,
And absent bosses don’t impede.
Ensconsed where corpses decomposed,
Those in cubicles will thrive, unvexed,
And never taken from their desks,
They’ll finish the great work imposed.
Interrers from a raucous age
Buried their kings and queens in mounds.
Since robbers filch, and greed abounds,
The wise entombed their heritage.
Sarcophaguses, then the norm,
Are too chilly for a comfy bed.
The dawn should kiss those lids of lead,
To heat what blankets cannot warm.
Rather than burying in hills,
Top those barrows with their occupants.
These somber monuments enhance
What would be dowdy domiciles.
Coffins as cenotaphs and plaques,
Allow the dead to bask in sun,
And feel what veneration’s done.
Hilltops make the best catafalques.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 12:27 PM UTC
The ultimate ecstasy
Smart soul, such flirting figure,
Shunning their staunch yet sly lame,
Shielding their stout sin secure,
Stunning snake, flickering flame,
Goddess of the greediest guts,
The ram rears before your ray,
The men moan, and hear their ruts,
They surrender if you say:
''Covet me, corrupted cores''
You tie them to your jetty,
Sending them at your soft shores,
They are caught, clasped and petty.
Your power paralyzes,
Heals from all the illnesses,
As it damns the strongest might,
Wait ,is your womb worth the wright ?
Vile Venus' voice, vulture !
Arcane angel, oracle,
Stop rising the sepulture
Of your victims, fool focal !
Your love has a foul fragrance,
I won't submit to your trance!
Poor, obsolete absolute,
You are now using a flute
On your bounded bared bodies,
Enjoying the energies
Flowing from their feeble blood.
Bathing in this fetish flood :
You are aroused, Addiction,
And as they all are in awe
On them you then pour your woe
Your awful absolution...
Smart soul, such flirting figure,
Shunning their staunch yet sly lame.
Shielding their stout sin secure.
Stunning snake, flickering flame.
Wether a drug, or a well
Of the finest *****
Wether a mirage, a dell
Deadliest equilibrium
You will lurk, and surely lure
In the dark, yes you will mure
Anyone tempted by this
Ecstasy and emphasis.
''Her name is Euphoria''
Her youth an Utopia.''
Thus, supposedly nowhere.
In fact, concealed everywhere!
The grievous allegory
Agape and agony
Faith as well as felony
The ultimate ecstasy.
April 21, 2013
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
Hello you, welcome to my home !
It's a sunny day today, yet have you come alone ?
Listen around to the trees and their green leaves,
hear the slow sprouting boil around gently,
it seems as if this place is simmering :
a true piece of paradise
out of time.
You've come to this cemeteray, the Cimetière Pere Lachaise no less,
to see Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chopin i suppose ?
Wise man, their tombs are monuments
and they are very sweet ghosts.
But I can see you've stopped your mind just now on a
secondary sepulture, on a winding path few explore
that is my home, this is my voice.
I know it's pretty right ?
It dosen't look half as good in winter, it's so grim,
yet with all these bees, and trees and yellow and sun
and crimson and blue and white, i bet you've never
seen a prettier picnic place.
I died 20 years ago, you weren't born.
It's okay, it didn't hurt much, and when you die
you sort of get to choose what you do,
you can roam around, you can disapear,
you can stay near your grave,
you can even wait for someone dear,
though that's what i think they call hell.
I choose to wake up every summer,
when it gets warm, i get to feel alive again,
i get to wander the park and rush elbows with people
and tourists, i look at the colorful clothes.
When you die you become sort of eternal,
like an idea of yourself
you aren't
you aren't any longer
thirsty or hungry,
nor sad or happy,
you sort of live in the forever
it dosen't feel bad to be honest.
Anyway, you can stay a little longer, i don't get much visits
thanks for looking at my stones,
and don't forget that life is the
sweetest thing
the universe has ever
blossomed
Carpe Diem
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 6:45 AM UTC