Monologue 2

far woman shrouded in loneliness
weeping
a hundred days of grief
bleeding blades of brass
bells tolling for another funeral
of the heart

far woman silent as a continent
calling my name
for a thousand years and i, who is here
rooted to the present joys
slowly dying
to the chants of my guilty conscience
beside the
cruel furies
in bed my hands rest at the tomb
of my chest.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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