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Falls Are Bronze and Gray If I fall, I fall. There is a grave, And in its arms are your arms, In its grip your hand, under its spell Your breath, our burden, your hurts, our pains. I stand at the stone and pry into your message, Rub away the mass of moss creeping along Its unfinished edges, I manage to find an ort, A single wavelet, a page from your memoir. I return to mingle with the same ghosts, And we cast aspersions like dice, like rice, And they rain down on you, on this gray Sunday, Where morning stiffly stretches toward noon. I stumble back to the car I left it running. I’m running. Away. As fast as feet can go That never ventured your way enough in life, And now, in your death, can only wave goodbye. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2006-12-07 22:30:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Ho,
The fruit rotting away from the vine. I mean, Vine.
Nasty.
Noxie