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Monday, May 19, 2008

Sonnet CXL

As roadkill lying on a barren road,
my flesh is eaten, chewed beyond despair;
my eyeballs plucked and fed to hungry toads,
my fingers torn and shredded with my hair.

The trucks run by my humble death’s abode
and trample me again till everywhere
it hurts, and then I wonder in my dole
if death should hurt much more than I can bear.

This is my life, this is my lovely death:
so filled with agony and cruel despair.
In life rejected and in death denied
the anaesthetic ceasing painful breath
and pain. The anaesthetic stealing air
and feeding sweet and lovely dreams.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!