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So in time-honored tradition, the poet writes his lines of verse

The rhymes seem to elude him the more he seeks the further from the rhythm he falls

deeper, deeper into an abyss that consumes all light, and the darkness envelopes him.

Hope dissipates with each beat of his slowing heart. The air is thick with a dank all-pervasive stench.

His lungs constrict and contract unable to inhale... slowly and surely he suffocates as his brain is starved and deprived of the life-giving blood that normally courses through his veins, that he so sorely needs now to survive.

The sounds that reach his ears are quiet, the silence is all-consuming until nothing is left of him.

Even the silence and utter darkness have deserted him.


He knows this place, he has been here before... oblivion... stupor, this and nothing more.


Decent in to Hades'HellPo

◄ May the forth be with you. by Poda

Unmarked grave. ►


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Tue 26th May 2020 20:51

Hi Nigel and Trixie

I am so pleased you liked this piece.

Sometimes even the darkness blinds.


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Tue 5th May 2020 06:50

Thank you both for your considered comments.



Tue 5th May 2020 02:20

Hey Po, your dark writes are mind thrilling. I love the way you use darkness to fill in the colors. Eerie silence before the closure. Well penned n wisely sensed.

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Don Matthews

Tue 5th May 2020 00:26

I very much like the pic quote. Well said....

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Mon 4th May 2020 23:31


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