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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 02-June 22:10:51 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 114734
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Witheringland
[time] => 2006-02-13 03:08:58
[hometext] => Kind of all-encompassing, difficult to pin it down to one meaning, its pessimistic but aint all bad; try it on and think
[bodytext] => We built this city on a fallen hero Knowing not the way of things, Dictated by Homeric era, His broken body hailed though feared, Even Machiavelli would have rejoiced In his throne of dispassionate marble; It seems Circumstance and Tradition Were beguiled by Superstition, Our walls perfectly glimmered gold While inside the mansions crumbled From what we best can say as beliefs Self-observed and obstinate We know not the way of things. We are not the way of things. Destiny and recitation trick us and do Nothing to still the hands on the hilt, All we can love is this city we’ve built. One from the ashes of earth, the dead gave birth And maybe we’ll all remember what should come first. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 187 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Benny14 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 3 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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