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Death Hills

By J Ann Crowder

The death hills rolled in clay
 
Silvery, sheen and sunken stones
 
They seem to whisper amongst a darkened, musky air
 
As night lights lushly soak earth’s molded, black duvet
 
There is history written upon the silty bones’ each fiber—written in a language we cannot read
 
Only our spiritual senses decipher some untraceable lines echoeing through a skeleton’s thick, dried marrow
 
Souls’ umbilical cords detached—gone into an evaporation
 
Nigh, through veils and unseen portals beyond the visible
 
Truths usher in with time’s stirring dust
 
Like notes uncomprehending; still, touching my inner most untouchable parts

Written November 30th, 2017. This poem was perhaps intended to be written more around October. This is a little more dark and haunting but I wanted to write and this is what came. Death and graveyards. I have strolled through an old graveyard at night in upstate New York. Being from the west it was a surreal experience. I was thinking about it while I wrote this poem.

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