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The Power of Death
Tears trickle down the face
The blurry vision of death
The face masked in fear and sorrow
A flower aged to the stem
Lying against the stone
Cold
And
Dead
A skeleton beneath it all
In a never ending slumber
A never ending
Inescapable
Dream
And surrounding it all are pretty flowers
But to the face
The mind
They are as ugly and brown
As the one on the grave
They are
Dead
To the eyes and mind
Evil tricks at play
Ones that have trapped this face in a mask
Of sorrow
Of fear
And of bitterness
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This article has 3 comments.
The poem offers plenty more to think about on other levels: What makes death so powerful to us? Is "evil" just another function of the human mind, maybe a false one at that? Where else is it common in the human condition to miss out on deep truths, to be tricked by the superficial or simply fear of the unknown?
My only constructive "criticism" is that, rhythmically and aesthetically, I wish it would close on a word other than "bitterness"--maybe something with one syllable that rhymes with "dead."