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Epitaph For A Word

04 Nov

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Every word, a death, of sorts,
as melancholy for the mind;
as a word, forged with mettle,
plays out its birthing, tenured,
for intended tome, yet unmade;
its form cast of smooth edges,
’tis palleted in measured thrust,
’til its union is called into being,
as that you now read has been;
then, with summoned passage,
from the mind of its magistrate,
the word dissipates into void;
only in its dying act of lesson
can it etch, as a grain of sand,
to erode in the mind as read,
affecting, in ethereal fashion,
a full line of verse; its epitaph.

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Posted by on November 4, 2015 in My Poetry

 

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