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Thursday, December 1, 2011

Listen

the poet is dead.

Died a silent death

when

you and I were writing prose

by the shores of the windy sea.

The sand,

picked on us

the poet,

by the rocks.

We scribbled, drew paragraphs plenty

the poet etched,

one

word

at

a

time


II


In the high tide,

we swam with the waves

hit the rocks

held on to them

when we were pulled away.

The poet

swam in deep sea;

never came back for tea.


III


Father,

why does my castle not stay?

Son,

its made of sand and clay.

Father

what does, this rock say

Son, it says

One

word

at

a

time

Life

does

not

always

rhyme.

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