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In the rolling folds of Earth
the dead molder in their graves
turned about by grave-worms
in silent, narrow caves

and all these restless sleepers
who mix with dirt and sod
wait for resurrection
and the pleasure of their God

for on that last most holy day
when time’s run to an end
those sleepers shall be lifted
and live happily again
©2005-2009 ~alchemist151
:iconalchemist151:

Author's Comments

another blooded poem. if yeh dun like it...go boil yer bloody head

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:icondagillsta:
This is a lovely poem! I love how you manage to create such a gruesome gothic image in the beginning, and yet you end it with a religious optimism. Very dark, yet very glad. Lovely work! Oh, and your word choice and rhyme scheme are brilliant, too!

9/10

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November 15, 2005
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