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Nativity Their bodiless trailing In smoke from cigarettes, Their bearing, their bearing, Someone has to carry God's awful purposes To man. It is trite, but apt, no need to reinvent Another metaphor: my angel. You guard the gate. The Holy Ghost loves you, The shepherds crowd your door, While I, in the desert, watch something distant, Which language makes a star. Tyger, tyger burning bright I follow your white footprints Through the night, To where it all begins, Again. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2012-12-29 13:39:33
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
L 16 to L19 is fantastic. While the body of the work is well written it is those lines that stand out for me.
The poems flow effortlessly.
Thankyou
Joe