All The Dead Cowards

A poem


Forget courage.

Forget the knotted stomach that sickens. 

Forget the struggle for steadying breath, 

for the flickering glimpse of consciousness coming.

Clarity,

where foldings become unfoldings and fear subsides to simplest truth.

Forget all that is possible if you’d 

just

try

and

find

a

fucking 

way.

Somehow.

Forget risk.

Bury the dice.

No more chance.

No problems.

No growth.

And the world gets smaller.

Excruciatingly.

Painlessly ambling from coward’s death to coward’s death and to a coward’s grave.


A death you choose 

with 

each 

sip.


Read more poems by Peter Boydell

With love

Entries to The Bread and Roses Poetry Competition

Through the Grime Smiles

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