poetry critical

online poetry workshop

Sad about death

When you took your
Last breathe, where was I?
Residing in a burned skull, minerature,
I am.
Cryptic being me and sorrow being you.
The chattering teeth
Of a scared mountain
Where skulls like these pile up—
The black strip of land resembles your deaths
And all the others, the scar—
   powder and films cover your face.
It is an open casket but your teeth
no longer chatter like the mountain, your soul
resides now on the dead scar.
The souls cry out of old mages.

14 Jan 18

(define the words in this poem)

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