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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2235647-Sepulchral
Rated: E · Poetry · Gothic · #2235647
We live as we dream - alone.
Immortalized in pigment,

it was a great likeness -

capturing more than

pale flesh and bony cheek.


Affixed to a canvas prison,

this worm-eaten frame

marks the boundary

Of my oil-based microcosm.


Here I linger on,

long after my body

molders and rots away

in the cold damp earth.


This lonely window was made

for pondering the life

my prototype possessed,

wandering an unseen world.


Eternity is nothing more

than observing cobwebs,

counting dust motes,

in an abandoned hallway.


I yearn to shed my linen skin,

for the briefest of moments,

discovering novelty within

another crumbling artwork.


Decades steal the tincture

from my unblinking eyes,

until corruption manifests

as a gaping void beneath.


Hair melts into shadow,

twisting darkness,

unable to stop myself

from being devoured.


A patina of sorrow clings

to my tarnished splendor,

feeding the dusk within

for I have nothing else.



(36 lines)
© Copyright 2020 I, Raven Scryer (rig0rm0rtis at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2235647-Sepulchral