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Literature Text
In time this rime will stir uncounted minds
Each line, each sign shall point another path,
Yet every freight of wonder in whirlwinds
Will answer in bellows like absence's wrath.
And so here I save the unborn a key;
An eye to look upon epochs long past
And gaze with love at time's loved hemlock tree
To fathom all that is deceased did last.
They will say times were varied and diverse,
They will speak of context so as to speak
The world was different on a faded hearse,
They will not give you the mild words you seek,
Remember then we were mortal and thus,
In each profound creation, you are us.
Each line, each sign shall point another path,
Yet every freight of wonder in whirlwinds
Will answer in bellows like absence's wrath.
And so here I save the unborn a key;
An eye to look upon epochs long past
And gaze with love at time's loved hemlock tree
To fathom all that is deceased did last.
They will say times were varied and diverse,
They will speak of context so as to speak
The world was different on a faded hearse,
They will not give you the mild words you seek,
Remember then we were mortal and thus,
In each profound creation, you are us.
Literature
Everything You Borrowed
On Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to
Literature
Midnight Thought Process
Perhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judg
Literature
Heat Advisory
We are an air-mass thunderstorm at the height
of an Indian summer -- a cloudburst colliding
into a cyclone, raising the temperature of any
who wander through our sweaty inversion.
I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,
straight into a clap of thunder conceived by
lightning fever. A roiling heatwave travels
across our connection, evaporating the atmosphere
surrounding the eye of our storm. Your humid
breath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,
pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.
Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,
a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.
And as the barometer spikes,
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Why rime rather than rhyme?
Anyway, to my critique, which I promised you.
You use a lot of imagery, which contradicts my style of attempting to use as many literal objects as possible. However, it does still allow me to see through your message, which I had picked up immediately.
You speak of the desire for knowledge, especially the desire of knowledge for those who wish to explore, to discover the nuances of all things. Mentioning hemlock and mortality, you give the search for this knowledge a sense of futility. Nonetheless, it is still encouragement to learn anything and everything.
You delve into the search for history and into the quest to a future we will never know.