In coal mines deep,
Where precious ore sleeps
And keeps no memory of passing days;
Amongst dark vaults and seismic faults,
That twist between the clay;
Where water seeps through breaches,
And reaches deep, down in eternal wells,
Towards hellish bells,
Where demons dwell;
There, the crushing weight of Fate,
And falling slate creates a cell
No one can escape.
For no light, no tell, no panic yell,
Can pierce that coffin,
Were bones now dwell.
The frantic terror,
Of hands clasping,
Lungs gasping, rasping...
For air that isn't there,
Pray tell were and by which stair,
Will bare the soul of the coal miner?
Either skyward carried, or ferried;
Delivered with care across the River,
To shiver where time is blurred,
And quiver as doom. is. heard.
YOU ARE READING
The Quiet Strangers
PoetrySometimes I think poems are like quiet strangers in the corner of the room waiting to be known. Only when time is taken to approach them is their richness revealed. Here you will find poems on nature, loss, hope, and the soul. Simple topics some mig...
