Poetry

The Dying Man

The smell of
Chloroform in those
Alleys, like
The famished fires
Of Burnt leaves
And
Branches of the ancient
Trees

Retains the ephemeral memories
Of incomplete desires
And unfinished goals
That lay buried, clothed in coffins
through several
Epochs
Only to count the lines
On the forehead of the dying
Man.

By Taranum (copyright, July 2017).

via Daily Prompt: Bury

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