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At the Library Too poor for purchase, you wrote them out. What kind of love is that, here? Your scribe’s Labor, lacking an object fit for such a task, Dwindled without condign reward. The distance between you and the Word, Far beyond their instruments of measurement, Is bridged by such a charity as consigns Hope to dust: there is no faith where things That die descend forever in the waves. But you loved anyway. So on your lines They come to climb, high on the ripples Of your words, borne where the sting of life Is lessened, though the grave, still hard, Is only made deeper. No bells, no sound, Just quiet in a darkening room; a contact That will never feel to touch; a multitude Of ghosts that might have been. These crowd the doorways, where you walk, Where impoverished urchins see you as they dream. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: cheyenne smyth On Date: 2013-01-07 15:13:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Mark,
This is a marvelous poem and one I enjoyed from the first line to the last. Your use of poetic devices is admirable to say the least. I must admit I had to look up the meaning of 'condign' and I am glad I'm not too old to learn something new. I have failed at picking a favorite line as I like each one. You have chosen expressive words that flow down the page with ease. Well done.
Best wishes,
cheyenne