DEATH APPROACHES
My harp is also turned to mourning
It always comes when it's dark. I feel it lurk
trying to get a foothold in the crack of my skin,
in the thinning shadow where I hide. The terror
is soon upon me, my soul is poured out. Death
approaches with a shear garment to bury me.
It drifts in with a foul wind―disease grips
me around the neck, strangles me until I shake
with dust and ashes. And I cry out, yet no one
hears me. The beast lurches, its long-needle
talons pierce my bones, grapple my insides.
My skin turns black with blood, my bones burn.
But in the twinkling of the dawn, its trammel-veil
will tear, its hooks will break to dullness, melt
as if its own dragon's breath was turned upon it.
I will dress in the glory the stars and rejoice.
O death, where is thy string?
O grave, where is thy victory?
―I Corinthians 15:55
―John Mannone
WRITE YOUR POEM
'Tis the season for the dark side. Some of us struggle with more reality of the dark than the light and so there can be comfort when the lights go out and we don't face our lighter counterparts in the sun. We witness to those things people dream of and don't speak. What do you write down on the edge of those realities? Write it on the candy wrapper on Hallowed Eve and let it blow in the wind.
A DREAM
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?
―Edgar Allen Poe
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