The Necropolis of Identity: Poetry



I traveled down past the place
where my internal screams died
in the fields of mute Agony
and spied the tombs of dead memories 
that haunted the necropolis of Identity

I stood there, 
having followed a shrill cry that
parted this curtain of writhing silence
only to find a shriveled body
on the ground holding 
one thin arm out to me 
in supplication

This dying Woman
comprised every hurt and wound
ever experienced in my Life

And so,
I held Her in my arms 
with compassion 
and sang an ode of Sorrow
until She breathed no more.



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