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?


Love For All But Death

To he who began to think of her
Who stole his heart, ’twas whence for sure
On glorious mornings
Where given no warnings
The praise he gave her for all but to save her
She left his heart filled with tragedy savored

Love had naught been so dire
Nor a heat felt with the passions of fire
And in these pure times
When, run down to the dime
Each day of pleasure was simply a treasure
Sadly ended with mourning, a grief without measure

For want of a life very happy
Each days with a pipe filled, he’s tamping
The pondering stifled
With a surely-placed rifle
With a click of the trigger he would certainly forgive her
And allow her the solitude of a wandering river

She loved him so deeply, it’s true
Her ghostly heart now struck with rue
The demon inside him
Was cause for to smite him
She wished deeply so but that which we don’t know
Is that she was long already dead, and in his dreams she did show

His memory of her was real
When they kissed on that night fate was sealed
For there they were wed
And that night she was dead
From a crush of a club by a flame once she loved
And a broken heart surely from past days thereof