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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 15:21:23 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 652
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Junkyard King
[time] => 2002-07-18 12:04:28
[hometext] => One moment of power in my childhood; a moment that, while very simple, I can hardly forget...
[bodytext] => summer swells in the heat of dusty streets
we do not know the rain the asphalt, cracked, many years of use marks the spans of our domain. heavy drifts of dust like snow lie over wooden gates inside our treasure, broken parts, a kingdom lays in wait. atop a pile of busted scrap a broken chair sits high; our feet are bare, the pile tall, and the one to climb is i. when sun sets on the tan horizon and shadows call the hour, i climb the gates and walk back home; no longer wielding power. i hear boys shout behind me, their mothers at the gate, and by myself I trudge back home, where darkness lays in wait. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 157 [topic] => 21 [informant] => skinny-little-punk [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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