Those last days mirrored a lifetime of misery,

A lifetime of anguish replayed day by day

The most sorded of these memories repeated

In the nocturne in periods of sweaty sleep

The arrival of the reaper silently awaited.


Where once he lazed in wistful reflection

Now a bare bed with grief remembers him

From whence a cry in the night is heard

Only in the solemnity of moonless nights

When absolute darkness engulfs his room.




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In ten lines, you really

In ten lines, you really orchestrate a symphony of shadows (as a German silent horror movie called it).  This is so eerie, because even the moon is adraid and stays away on some nights (that reminds of me Oscar Wile's pla, Salome, in which descriptions of the moon run parallel to the horrible goings on in Wilde's play).  And even the moonless nights are solemnities.  To me, this is the story of a human being's soul-death---and, what is worse, the character is at least partly aware of it.  I myself came dangerously close to this in 1978, so this poem hits home ,like a perfect ghost story.

I applaud your decision not to make the darkness a speaking character, even metaporically:  had you done so, I might be havng nightmares tonight.


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