This Poem was Submitted By: Lora Silvey On Date: 2016-07-10 02:50:10 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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As Seasons Grow Cold

...age and illness rob the mind of flowered words whose petals drop wisdom's scent across pages dusted with promises simmering on strophe Gone are the tempests that set minds afire to burn fresh born thoughts that are quenched only by penning gifted moments shared in a litany of paradox as life comes to sleep on hands that can’t hold or legs that don’t walk while seasons grow cold

Copyright © July 2016 Lora Silvey

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2016-07-13 13:51:28
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Rage, rage at the dying of the light. This poem hits those of us in the so called autumn of our years the hardest. Yet you describe this with such a blossoming flare. There is not one boring line in the entire poem. It also seems like something that happens when i experience depression. Hands that can't or wont move a pen or legs to tried to walk within the world it wants to hide from. A really thought provoking poem

This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2016-07-10 12:41:27
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Lora, sometimes a piece makes the point. Other times, like this time, it is antithetical to the point. Your piece speaks to the great ruse being applied to all life, some sooner than later, others later than sooner. Nevertheless; I understand the prompting of this piece, the tally, which is no long supposition, but exposition. I understand George Bernard Shaw’s quote; Youth is wasted on the young- oft repeated by many reaching “that” age. Whatever that age is for them. Your “litany of paradox” is an amazing simile, particularly in that the comparative issues are not spoken within the simile. A paradox in itself. The craftsmanship of this piece, returning to my first line, and your first stanza, bely the point of the fresh and amazing piece. I guess, if I were to speak to it all, I’d say, (which is my wont) Nevertheless. Seasons grow cold, but you remain what you were before, and to be. It’s the poets, the craftsman’s, the creators- contribution. Well done.
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