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rain rivers
black and curving
held by papers

fragments of
yesterday is swimming
against the naked curb
bright green grass
will take the tales
drink it in
like a thin sin

there are carnations
behind the glass
and sharp thorn

the water will fill
the vases
and fine print
distortions will
etch the clause

chimes are ringing
in the breeze
like phantom
spirits that dwell
making light their
songs to sell

my footprints are
rain prints
and the sky
is a scar of ragged

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 


and wonderful piece of writing! I was hooked from the first line.......

Awesome dude!



"Death" is nonsense: what is there to die?
"Life"? How could " life" "die"? That is a contradiction
in terms. Can "light" become "darkness"?
"Light" can only cease to be apparent

Wei Wu Wei

this one came from somewhere
the gift of writing the poet muse
hung over feeling scared
fear ful and angry too
revolving soul with all its great fragments
like a shattered mirror
the struck image of soul

thanks for the comments Lenny

author comment

This is not my style of poetry, but I enjoyed the read nonetheless because hidden within the poem are a number of lines that ate the lining from my gut.
"my footprints are rainprints" "drink it in like a thin sin"
If you could fill a poem with bullets like that I'd buy the book.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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some poems draw comments
that are unique and filled
with a similar kind of terrible beauty
and this was one of them

this poem was from the well of
creativity that frightens me
i moved through it slow
like walking in a lightening storm
with no place to find cover

not all writes are like this
its when this Gift I received
and honed sometimes has
a power I greatly appreciate
and respect these comments

Thank you Wesley

author comment

were not taken
the reckoning of the dead
its easier to remember
nicknames for places
replace faces
with soft focus recall

today is today
and that curve I lived through
that i made it around
will change tommorrow

like the ghosts that come
to visit on windless nights
to pay respect to the living

author comment
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