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July Poetry Collection | Burial Day Books

July Poetry Collection | Burial Day Books

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Published by Burial Day Books

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Published by: Burial Day Books on Jul 23, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Poetry by Martin Gibb

Burial Ground
As the skies turn to gray and leaves to brown, I shall darkly make the cemetery my haunting ground. through the cold and bleak winds I trudge alone, surrounded in death by the cruel and brutal stone. Alas, I vault down into that freshly-dug grave; souls around me mournfully cry—eternally enslaved... Nay, interned in rotting ground I shall not be, for fire, air and ash shall forever set me free. ...In gloomy October alone do I roam; and only near to the grave do I find my home. gray skies cover this horrible ground, the stones sit menacing in the brutal darkness... alone in October I find my home... death rides my very shoulder here through, whispering in the leaves and trees... alone in October I am set free... howling winds eat through you soul, turn the warmest heart to palest ice... alone in October is my heart warm...

Copyright 2012 Burial Day Books


Poetry by John Grey

Copyright 2012 Burial Day Books


No more ripped, torn bedclothes. It's bleeding dawn, oozing day. My nerves are twisted like strangled swan necks, skin cold as hearts, the room all beast-shadow and anemic window shine. But the dark's all done...isn't it? Bare trees shake and shudder, won't let go my nightmare. Heat pipes noisily crack open the furnace like it's my personal gates to hell. The lake wind summons up its choir. What kind of dirge is, "Did you sleep well?" No, this is not waking. My eyes are merely wading through the dregs of night. Knuckles rub against back sleep, squeeze soiled dreams back into my brain, to fester ‘til the nest time.

Copyright 2012 Burial Day Books


The highways are starker, lonelier. On long stretches of desert, the earth cracks open. hell fires smoke through. Beyond the horizon, destinations implode, the promise land is stolen. His life's reduced to tramping this boiling runway of sticky tar. never getting where he's going, withered and weary, dry as rock, tongue muttering, sharing his stories with his crumbling head. A car approaches, as rare, as random, as birds or trees or wind. His thumb shoots up in desperation. But no one stops for a floating thumb.

Copyright 2012 Burial Day Books


Today, the plague carts come, low voices chanting, ''bring out your dead.' dull bodies thumped atop other bodies, bonfires lit in public squares, corpses tipped into the flames, diseased flesh bubbling and cracking, a billion silent screams. The square is empty but cleansed. The houses arc lonely but safe. Air smells of burning love, the stench of memory.

Copyright 2012 Burial Day Books


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