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The Untitled

Time is growing old;

I sit,

I wait.

I feel its cold hands,

Darkness,

Closing,

Strangling, gasping darkness entwines my body, my soul.

I may let it consume me,

Devour my body whole.

To where the shallow creek of lost hearts roam.

Within each passing stretch of these short hours,

Let me count each burning tear I shed,

Take each one to the comfort of my bed.

Let the fevered heart embrace every chaste kiss and love we once made,

As this heart lays bare,

Let my soul be mine to share.

That as I lose my self to my untimely end,

You acknowledge the depths of my emotion that God could not tame nor bend.

I see you now as my eyes grow weak,

I see your future,

Your happiness and bless each moment to never be bleak.

As a tortured soul such as mine pleads to see you smile,

I hope that one day in random thought you will remember me for a while.

© 2011 Alana Bembridge

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