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Array
(
[sid] => 178211
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => For Whom the Bell Does Not Toll
[time] => 2014-04-26 12:25:42
[hometext] => This is what aappens when you mix Hemingway, nostalgia and regret.
[bodytext] => I am a brick. I came from a brick. Terracotta even, edges clean- Unblemished prime geometry. Not for long. Not for any price. Losing colour vibrant, true- My bearing brick, I see, now so far from new. How do I fit? In the wall, and quick! This earth is diminishing me- I'm wearing down- it's happening! All the world will see. No easy trick, to be a brick. I was made. So Shall I make. My turn at the stick- As I was, so I made, a perfect little brick. Elements are beating me. Cracks like porcelain erupt. My begatting brick is ragged now- Janus mocking me, and how. My creation? Pride. Still fundamental-elemental, Yet fading perfect form of yore- Brick so hard, and so I tried; delving, always more. No easy trick, to be a brick. I was the house. I am the house. Now my progeny his own- Wind and rain; aught to gain, our houses are alone. Sound waves crash. Sound waves beat. The bell's toll is erasing me- The brick I made has turned away, too late now do I see. He has his house. He is his house. Bell's toll sweet his bricky ears- It now tolls for him not for me, as I heft my makers fears. No easy trick, to be a brick. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 124 [topic] => 31 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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