Anaphora

Gone, the cry of the nurtured

of minds led by divine grace.

 

Gone, the enlightened process of reason

the functions twisted by acquisition.

 

Gone, the free-spirited souls

fluttering under the canopied rooftops.

 

Gone, the righteous champions of the spotlight

crashing down to lay with the mortals.

 

All that remains; a footprint in the sand

Washed away by the rising tide.

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The door.

In timeless breaths

it bites, gnaws at my soul.

Hammering at the door.

.

“Where is your master!”

Bellowing whilst he crawls

None withstanding, crashing upon the door.

.

“The master is I, and I master none!”

Shouting, raving to a score

Silent reply and silence heard only by the door.

.

Yet, Still I lay a-waiting

Forever abound by this droll

Crashing and rasping upon the door.

High score.

A dream furfilled, messages instilled.

The children raised, windows glazed

Who got the high score?

.

A book written, a wife most smitten

The world travelled, its mysteries unravelled

Who got the high score?

.

Found enlightenment, lived without alignment

put in another coin, “player two can join”

Who got the high score?

.

.

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