This World, At Times, Is A Death Shroud Poem by Mark Heathcote

This world, at times, is a death shroud.
So many chores must you follow.
In chains peddling your pedalo
As though it is destiny ploughed

To die in abstinence of life
And to drown in compound sorrows
Many protracted tomorrows
We're dreaming of an afterlife.

Oh, and wave after wave we fight.
To survive, then drown in a tear
A broken heart frozen in fear
Trapped in a cave, like dolomite

Sedimentary existence
Hoping for one day to be found
Refined into a gemstone round
And at someone else's insistence

And find a good reason to wake
Draw back the curtains and give thanks.
And sing loudly from your larynx.
Never again feel so opaque.