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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 15:15:17 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 144642
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => sickly summer love
[time] => 2008-08-20 14:48:03
[hometext] => always, abraham
[bodytext] => Two in the morning— The world finds regret in the muggy heat of August, and the echoes of its discontent grow more distant and more defined. A mosquito is hovering in limbo waiting for an opportunity to feed, unaware that its presence remains observed, and that its life span is shortening by the second. There is never enough time, the hours pass, the days remain—we find ourselves afraid of the future, with aversions to the past, and today there is too little time for comfort. The mosquito continues on a linear path: ascending, then descending, ascending, then descending—it is insignificant, and in that, it is magnificent and heartrending. There is no more time for poetry, no more time for soft, implausible couplings of words, no more time for rhymes, or for the short-lived and sweet, sickly summer love that dawdles in its decline, hoping for a brighter future. The mosquito is gone, unharmed, and I sit alone with wooden spaces, burgundy drapes, and the memories of now separate and younger hands. The days are suddenly absent, the nights long ago departed, and I am calm, treading lightly over years passed by in tears and glory. My life consumes me, I fear the coming of the dawn, and I fear the reflection of the stars drawing from the sun, stretching violently over the memories of a thousand strands of love and hoary, persistent sands, crumbling at the influence of lightly shaded feet. It is two in the morning and I am a tired, defeated man, and I think I need some sleep. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 301 [topic] => 60 [informant] => iodinelove [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => insomniac )
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