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desert love

love is a
a tree
that flowers in
the desert

if it bears no fruit,
its branches
turn to
inevitable dust--

to be blown on
whispering winds
of sadness and grief
so deep,

even angels weep.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 

Comments

the howling of the desert wind... harbinger of its insatiable hunger... swallowing all into its sands of forgetfulness... remarkable poem, this.

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'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

cryptic,

thank you.

"sands of forgetfulness...

would that I could. . .

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

I'm not much of a commentator, but I like this poem... not quite as visual as "a normal day", but thoughtful, and thought provoking...........

I

Thanks for the read, Ed. Not as visual perhaps, because emotions are not of fabric that can be seen, only felt, but have almost a tactile density that lie just beyond the edge of sight.

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

the first stanza could have stood as a poem by itself...............scribbler

Stan,

I never looked at it like that, but you are right. I only wish that what brought this poem to life hadn't been the ending of another.

Thank you,

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

Thank you, Shirley!!

Always nice to hear from you.

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment
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