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 Tamara Beryl Latham - The Poet

The Living Dead

'Tis like the quiet early morn
when a chill is in the air
to surround, and then engulf,
with melancholia and despair.

'Tis like a ship on waters' grey
with ocean swells meant to entomb.
Though a knife doth pierce the heart,
blood egresses from the moon.

'Tis like an iron sarcophagus
sailing waters to nowhere.
Imprisoning suffocation doth
impede the soul to bare.

'Tis like a graveyard of the sea
whose only skeletal remains,
equipped with living flesh,
devoid of love and all its pain.

'Tis the rattle of last breath
relinquished slowly on deathbed.
'Tis the man without a soul
condemned to live though he be dead.

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