by Joseph A Wraith
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Not rated by the Author.
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Not a Poem of Ryhmes.
Memoirs of an Immortal...
I awake in the light of day to wander the streets, always searching, always watching.
Life passes me by like it has for thousands of years, moving by like the winds whipping my hair as a gust of cold breath and then gone.
Seeing life and death for so long
has made me numb.
Walking in and out of growing,
dying and dead societies as
a ghost through a tomb never
touching or being touched.
How can one relate to the insignificance
of the soul vessels
around me when they depart so
quickly leaving me to myself for
another hundred years.
I walk through them as I were
walking through a river rushing
by and around me.
If you could see these simple creatures
through my eyes you would
see them as I do.
Like moths circling a flame.
They are just the cattle for the kill,
not a reason, not a life of worth.
Dust is dust and can be wiped away as easily.
Only the evil is remembered over the
good in their lives.
The time they spend here is washed away
by the time of someone else to come.
So what is it all about?
Why am I the one who lives on,
unnoticed, untouchable, untraceable?
What is my calling?
Why am I?
Immortality is not my hell.
My hell is being alone.
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|Reviewed by Jennifer Croy
|great work wraith I wrote a poem for you to read the little bird followed me Jen|
|Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
|Ah, ha, the saga of Dorian Gray continues and continues and . . .|