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Epitaph

Rating: 2.7
The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.

I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup.

I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.

The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.
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COMMENTS
Cynthia Buhain-baello 29 December 2009
A poem for someone lying in a grave- epitaph. Written in jest supposedly by the 'dead' body - describing how it looks from her grave point of view. Crafty and witty as always with a cutting last line.! 0+++
1 2 Reply
April Castro 01 November 2006
I wonder what the poems' connotation is? Can anyone help me?
1 1 Reply

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