Cold Poem by Laureate Ezekiel

Cold



As the blood drops from the blade,
I taste victory
As the blade's pursed lips
Pass through another cold heart.

I stare to the sky,
Hoping that this will all pass,
Like the stars pas before my eyes,
Like Death touches my fingertips.

The curtain drapes around my forgotten soul,
And my mind drifts into a haze.
Forms draw and develop,
And the silence pierces my ears.

Suddenly, darkness contrasts my form
And casts a shining shadow onto the parchment of life.
My arm comes down on the canvas,
And the brush takes another life.
The shovel digs deeply,
As my cold, lifeless hands put another dream in the ground.
The grass I step on is cold.

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