The hole engulfs,
more easily than
a gravediggers shovel.

Grass gone.
Soil tilled,
ready for the bounty.

Dirt rains in
a view of the sun.

and finally,
needed rest comes.

False alarm. Ejection.
Back into the sunlight.
Warmth breathes new life

Alone, no longer sustenance for
insects, spiders, or worms.
Blind mole creatures will starve.

Alone, yes- but there is sunlight
and warmth from the True Source.
Not burning blind as from napalm.

Warm, pliable
in the expansive womb,
I am ready for rebirth.

About The Emotional Orphan

I am a museum of past affection. A wax museum in the sun.
This entry was posted in Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Youlogy

  1. wow. So much depth here, and Im not tlking the 6 feet under kind. It’s lvely like a crisp autumn sky.

  2. The Emotional Orphan says:

    Thanks Jodiodio. A crisp autumn sky, you can see from laying on your back from six feet under…..Your support is invaluable. Hey, where’d all the undead poets go?

  3. Tim Keeton says:


    Vell done, as always!

    Keep on Rhymin’ On!
    (Thus spake the Undead Poets)

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