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Quill I write in haste: your footsteps hit the corridor, like an interrogation. Our years sprinted quite unnoticed - until you chose bastinado for us. Youth, studious of your pleasures, bright fall your eyes on any horizon that seems to glint axe-like and red like a forebear bloody and underfoot. Can she-spider’s mates ever learn to forgive her her turning of the screw? Though you come now, once you find this quill, ink, this fate will have passed on, to you. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2006-12-03 17:19:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.50000
Mark,
Wonderful.......even if I'm a bit unsure as to who did what.
Someone got hit with a stick!
It seems to me you would write and your mother? would be on you to do
different. If she reads you now it will be passed on to her?
I don't know......it just is good. Something to ponder.
Dellena