ChandraMoon
Established Muse
You were smooth stones at the bottom of a cold, fast-moving stream
Posts: 173
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Post by ChandraMoon on Aug 27, 2005 22:32:27 GMT -5
White washed rocking chairs on my front porch. Your eyes solemnly on mine, words detached and isolated, Twirling around my ears for Someone else's conciousness-- The poem is not my fault. It's pleading to be written.
Maybe the sun cups our faces, As we linger in the light Any inch of cold desire dies on our lips.
Our age is evident through our eyes on the world; Mine, they saw dreams nightly. Yours never flash in the dark.
A scratch of Paris is the sunlight? Splintered white chairs, need a coat of paint, Maybe you'll paint them next weekend, Squatting in that strange way you do, Thighs touching calves, Sweat dewing on your scalp, Dried paint on your arm--let me scrub it off.
Tonight, sneak where the moon is. I will be waiting for you, and so will my words.
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Post by madamutopia on Sept 3, 2005 5:51:13 GMT -5
I enjoyed your poem very much. Nicely done.
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Post by Jessie on Sept 8, 2005 20:39:04 GMT -5
That was a really lovely poem. I especially liked the first and second stanzas. Pretty!
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jd
New Member
Posts: 0
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Post by jd on Sept 10, 2005 20:16:24 GMT -5
Superb, I enjoyed every bit of it. Can't believe you managed to pull that off. I tried this drops of poetry a couple of times. Just absolute wow. Great poem.
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