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Rated: E · Poetry · Reference · #2319340
A short poem about the impossibility of moving on and how that leads to one's death.
The story starts,
much the same as they all do.
A soft blue sky, a brown field.
Bones scattered everywhere.
“Six months dead”, the coroner utters.
Somwhere near, a tear falls from the blue sky.
The field does not care.
It`s been two long years.
The tear keeps falling. The body keeps decaying.
Still, the field does not care.
A post mortem is conducted.
A scavenged throath, dirt in alveoli.
Where to? To where it all started.
Under a brown field, the remains where laid,
ten years down they sit.
I still love you, I confess in the quiet of death.
A quick look to bones mawled. A blank face.
I keep dying in the brown field.
He still does not care.
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