Too late for rhymes
a weary voice across the line
vaults like shattering glass
flying off and piercing fast
right across a gutless spine
a crumpled piece of dirty sheet
crammed full of striked out lines
in the basket landing on its feet
where there's no need for rhymes
a bitterpill fearlessly swallowed
a wry smile from a pith now hallowed
tired eyes closed yet drawn to weep
though the sweetest wail be whispered in sleep...
2007-11-07
11:57:03
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6 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry