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Poetry: Death

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The Sore Being

New born, small and young, but wise, wreck'd and griev'd
The child was; his quest for vacuum seem'd long
That vacuum that would make the child feel releav'd
That would set the chain'd redeem'd, free and strong,
Yet the child's endless search for emptiness
In the every where and where seem'd vain;
He hunt'd sheer relief but caught mere dolefulness,
Where the mournful vale was in blood and pain,
In the spring of sin, in the pitch-dark place,
Where being is forever bleeding hurt;
But, still searching in every inch for space;
For the end of woes, for the purge of dirt;
For demise, decease, death, whate'er might be;
For end and delight; for to cease to be.

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