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Worn Bones

April 2, 2009

Another day facing the pyre,

the desk stacked with monotony

that buries the body of potential,

of could have been, with bills.

The cubicle, a casket for ambitions

beyond nine to five, embalmed

with age and responsibility,

murmured wishes a dirge,

final memorial to sanctified remains

of the dreams of youth.

NaPoWriMo Read Write Poem Prompt #2

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5 comments

  1. Hate your job LOL? That’s the first thought in my head. The second was about loss of innocence. Either way it’s a great poem.

    I LOVE the darkness of it. But there’s hope with the last line. It’s like the dreams of being young again is what makes it all worth while.

    http://lori102870.blogspot.com/


  2. nice also…keep it up my friend


  3. Nicely done, and eerily reflects the feelings I have been experiencing while staring at my own desk…


  4. Work and the workings of death– very nice.


  5. I don’t quite see my desk as romantically as this. :-0



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