Friday, June 4, 2010

Post-Milton.

Death was free to all,
not here it thus has grown
for when cool breezes stroke my neck,
Spring, its seeds hath sown.

And how shall I appear and lay
when buried in my grave?
My bones to reach through dust and dirt
and hold the hand that stayed.

The hand that staid hath nail endured,
builds firelight at day's gloam.
For where those feet are planted near
it's there I call my home.

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