I Can Writing Poem?

Flat upon the rounded earth, still in the midst of partial sanity
Revealed within the spectrum of conscious thought
Lie a simple shell of a human, planted among hundreds in a cemetary
Below the surface of this cold reality, yet freedom a body has not
Doth one become free upon burial or a higher risk of
Purgatory doth he risk upon this anchor?

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Death Is Too Good For the Wicked

Exacting justice
Upon the wicked
Is still satisfying
Even if they’re human
On the outside…

The inside is necrotic flesh
A spirit robbed of any light–
Hopeless, filled with cyanide
Lifelike as only a marionette can be

False in the ways
Of justice
Served out only on dried tree’s corpses
Indelible ink through osmosis
Writ in patterns
To make codes
And defended with equal wooden puppets

Sink into the skin, thou wretched spear
Grave to be thy next home
Hermit
Ye twisted mind, thine crooked smile
Thou look’st upon me
As only Medusa could have

Though not so cursed in thy stare
Thy vile and foul ways be set in stone
And without reasonable purpose
Thou still breathe, a liar art thee
The devil on thy hands and in thine eyes
Thy love affair with Death
Damned as only the Darkness can be

The ink hath dried now
The quill art in resting place
The deed indeed done
Hath changed thy destiny
For imprisonment evermore
Now await thee
No death simple nor gruesome
Shall free thou from thy flesh
Doomed as any wrongdoer hath been

Do thou now
Eat the fecal matter, swallow
Sink into thy belly
Let poison fill thine veins
Let ye sneeze the liquid dung
Drink it again
As only a grim doomed spirit e’er did