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Earth crumbling through fingers, each particle
a piece of a soul gone before. The dead
never leave us, he thought. Too quick to kill,
the human race. More solid, more instead
like stone, like rock, man should be, as mind will
not let one forget when life is taken.
Regret stays, haunts, for a long time – until
the thief of breath his own last takes, shaken
by the karmic cycle; truth of vengeance
spiritual. Written in the stars. How
wrong he had been, how naive. His penance,
he saw, would be to suffer a hindrance
to memory’s oblivion, work and plough
away the pain. With his demons ever dance.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2015]