I'm the new poster, Caprice. As per my name, anything I write will be - inconsistent. You could say it provides variety, but that's just the nice-sounding excuse I like to give myself.
I wrote this poem concentrating on the rhyme scheme, so the theme isn't well-developed. I try.
The fears of many arise
At any form of demise
What one cannot contemplate
How it is like to feel those
Feelings on the day most late
What, if any, part lives on
To tell a tale a lifes' worth
From the very end to birth
Are we truly to be gone?
Many are the times it's heard
A belief in detachment
As the dead in its' raiment
In a process most clement
The soul from body capered
All future is a mystery
We blunder with obscured sight
Even under the daylight
The world, no matter how bright
Must spin to eternal night
What lives on is history
When our selves come to a close
In lifes' eternal repose
Do we disappear? Who knows.
It's very hard getting 7 syllables for each line.
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