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Shaun Anthony' Profile

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The final bed was crisp and golden, 
Where once lay me with thoughts of olden.
The rays shone through the window shattered,
Upon my form with clothing tattered. 

The eyes were closed when the mind awoke, 
To find itself in a darkened cloak. 
It wondered aloud about this shroud, 
To which its body was now endowed. 

There came a sound of distant sobbing,
Matched only by the muffled throbbing.
As gears began to twist and churn, 
Beyond the light I felt a yearn. 

The clicking stopped and all was dark,
And all was calm upon the arc. 
The crying stopped, anxiety flopped,
And a sweaty brow was mopped. 

The cage began to shake and rattle, 
As gentle sound turned noisy brattle,
And from behind there came a tapping,
Of blackened powder no longer napping.

The gears began to whirr again, 
As I lay still within my den.
Staring down a lighted tunnel, 
I felt a distant gentle runnel. 

When chamber docked and arc was locked, 
My non existent face was shocked, 
For staring back through murky tears, 
Was the man Id been for years. 

I struggled, fighting, screaming, crying, 
Tearing, sobbing, weeping, flying,
Ripping through a cushioned mass,
And landing outside on the grass. 

The final bed was sharp and prickly, 
As it wrapped around and held me thickly. 
I fell asleep a dented can, 
And woke again a broken man. 

Author notes:  This poem is about a man who dies and is reincarnated as the bullet that killed him in a game of russian roulette. It's a metaphor for what happens when a suicide victim decides that they've changed their minds, but its too late to go back.
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Staring through the rusty gates we see the station master,
Surrounded by the long dead flowers; not a hint of aster.
The clock that chimes behind his head is silent still and dead,
... continued
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The tannoy sounds as she approaches the line,
Clutching a satchel at a quarter to nine. 
Her sun kissed eyes look up to the sound, 
... continued
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His woeful scent is ever clearer, 
As it approaches ever nearer, 
It's gentle beating ever queerer, 
Knocking on its chamber door. 

His gentle steps climb ever louder, 
As it approaches ever prouder, 
With heavy beats that never flounder, 
Knocking on its chamber door. 

His shameful gaze breaks through the awning, 
As it approaches ever spawning, 
It's steady rhythm never falling, 
Knocking on its chamber door. 

His hurtful hands are ever clasping, 
while my fur coat continues gasping, 
As it approaches ever rasping, 
Knocking on its chamber door. 

His blackened hands are all but shattered, 
While my fur coat is all but tattered, 
As it approaches rhythm spattered, 
Knocking on its chamber door. 

His feet aloft he kicks the pieces, 
Into a hole where light decreases, 
Where upon the beating ceases, 
Knocking on its chamber door. 

His footsteps are but muffled bumping, 
Drowning out the sound of thumping, 
So I begin my playful jumping, 
Knocking on my chamber door. 
Thump. Thump. 
Knocking on my chamber door.

Author notes: This poem is Edgar Alan Poe's tale of The Tell Tale Heart, told from the perspective of the beating heart. At first it is aware of the beating heart of its would be killer getting closer, then the killer puts it under the floorboards, where it begins its playful jumping. I borrowed a specific line from The Raven to finish each section. 
... continued
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She dances through time like a dandelion
As her lover looks on from afar
He watches her twirl and her hair unfurl,
... continued
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While ears and fists sit tightly clenched,
I sit with backside firm and benched,
And though no rain I find I'm drenched,
... continued
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Legend tells of a ghostly train, 
Whose passengers have souls in twain, 
Who gave their lives to see the world, 
To see its mysteries become unfurled. 

Enter a man, his daughter, her dog, 
He gave his life to go the hog, 
To give her joy and fulfilled wishes, 
At the price of seeing sleeping fishes. 

Behold the boy who's curiosity abounds,
He paid for this trip with more than pounds,
His will to know if the north pole exists,
Will leave you shivering with sinister twists.

Over in the corner sits a broken man, 
Who's business didn't quite go to plan,
So now he rides the ghostly plain,
Slowly becoming completely insane. 

Lying on the floor with a bottle of scotch,
Which she brought by pawning a golden watch,
Perches the housewife, neglected and sleeping,
Who boarded the train to escape the weeping.

Our final passenger is one you've met,
Who sits in the cold and the rain and the wet,
I'm talking of course of the homeless man,
Whose cry for help from which you ran.

Where to begin, shall we start with the girl?
The one with the dog and the father Earl,
Whose only wish was to see the sights,
Of ancient ruins and flying kites.

Her father was upset at the loss of his wife,
Upon which his daughter became his life,
So when she asked in her softened voice,
It seems he was left without a choice.

Fearing the prospect and unable to cope,
He went to the yard to fetch some rope,
Where upon he tripped and fell,
And landed next to the garden well.

For the next few hours he slept like a baby,
His fall fates attempt to stop him maybe,
But alas it could not and he awoke with a groan,
Rising from the floor with an audible moan.

Rubbing his eyes with a drawn out yawn,
He stared across at the barren lawn,
Until his eyes did find their way,
To the object that would cause the fray.

He turned it over and didn't think thrice,
Before entering the house and shooting twice,
One for the daughter, who wouldn't have heard it,
And one for the dog who didn't deserve it.

When he looked upon the damage he'd caused,
He took no time to stop to pause,
For he opened his mouth and put it inside,
And that was where the father died.

Now I bet your wondering what fate befalls,
A family when the reaper calls,
Perhaps a silence and a dreamless slumber,
Or maybe the whistle of a train on lumber.

All we know for sure it seems,
Is the family woke from sordid dreams,
And found upon their ashen faces,
A locomotive and their cases.

Boarding the train without incidence,
Was the daughter in all her innocence,
Who believed her father had done his best,
The fact that he shot her she wouldn't of guessed.

Her father his face was white as a sheet,
And the ground was frozen to his feet,
As he looked upon the steaming coaches,
Wishing he'd been eaten by roaches.

All aboard the Darklite Express,
With just the clothes that they possess,
There comes an echo, a spectral whistle,
Departing this life with quick dismissal.
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There is a lore of ancient creatures nestled in the tundra,
Who’ve lived upon the lonely mountain guarded by the umbra.
They flit between the light and shadows in search of hearty meals,
... continued
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I hear the sound of longshore waves that lap against the seawall
And the sound of ocean birds that dance around in freefall
I hear the sound of distant footsteps, and whispers of a journey
... continued
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One day a metal structure appeared in our field
And we waited to see what it would do
We must have waited an age it seemed
... continued
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