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Rated: E · Poetry · Philosophy · #2082443
Death and life.

The lights go out--this is my end,
one hour left...that’s sixty minutes,
a mere thirty six hundred seconds.
How I know this, I cannot say;
perhaps I’ve plundered wisdom
from the stars.  But this I know,
my time is short, and so immodest
I must be, a wanting rogue,
a highwayman, a looter for
To wit, this time is mine,
so I must dazzle
time with jewels,
and feed my appetite
with sweets,
and sense the lust 
five by five,
and dream all dreams of men,
and wear the finest silk
and fur, and drive
along a tree-lined boulevard
in a white Rolls Royce
attended by a blonde
or two.
And in this skimp
of trucked-off breath,
I want to swim in deep blue
seas where dolphins nose
in chatter-speak,
assuring me
life will abide, and will go on.
I will be buoyed as I go down
with pressures
overwhelming me, until
I’m gone into the depth
of ocean vast, and old and such
that brings about the stirrings
of new life, the vital force
spawned in the main
oh so long ago.

40 Lines 
Writer’s Cramp 
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