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Children of Fickleness

We are all children of fickleness.
A loss
does not chain us constantly
but holds us only
when we remember it,
strikes us as insurmountable
only until
it's forgotten.

*

Sometimes on the grass
we reach perfection.
We don't know we are at odds.
Then, riding on the linear path of a cloud,
antagonism looms,
enters our spheres,
strikes us as always
having cast a shadow.

But it will exit as it came,
and we will be perfect again.

But what to do in the meantime?
Yell, spit, leave, return.
Anguish.
Be still, as still as possible.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Last few words: 
Thanks for your time!
Editing stage: 

Comments

I like the title....like a weather vane on fronts
never knowing which way..

as I read this I was thinking of a female voice
reading.....(Our Neopoet audiophile listeners)
entranced to its lull and ebb..its peaks and
transoms cross stretchs like wavecaps

the pacing a royal test of measure

the theme is my favourite topics from yarns
to yearnings

and tis best to be still in that tempest

Thank You!

The begining and ending....
as each stem has its stern

extremely enjoyable poem to read on a rather
blustery night...

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