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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 17:23:30 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 48259
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => 24th March 2004
[time] => 2004-05-19 15:29:56
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I paint a picture with my words, Not beautiful or even clear; But a scene, a single image stands, I ponder and the ink drips silently onto page. A lake, a tree, a far off sunset, Too romantic, too unreal. A cluster of nettles perhaps, Or a mud-stained park; Few birds or even worms, little presence of living. A bench - scratched and worn, A memory - toppled from its cold stone pinth; A puddle - no stream - murky and shallow. No reflection there. No image of the other side of myself, to gaze upon. A sharp breath, Fog and dark clouds are shadows of death. A whisper of life - myself. The air is a shapeless weight, There is no clear reflection here. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 188 [topic] => 27 [informant] => louby [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 9 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => NaturePoetry )
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