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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 10-June 19:52:58 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 115178
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Look
[time] => 2006-02-21 21:09:09
[hometext] => a random poem about a nightly enigma
[bodytext] => At it. Look at it. That empty, wooden chair, that wants to be a Recliner, A sofa, A mattress, But it’s not. It’s almost new, though. No nicks in the wood, no indentations. It just sits there, starting at me. Teasing me with it’s space, Clashing brilliantly with my bright polka dot comforter, It makes no apologies. Just that empty, empty, chair. It’s dark stained wood matching nothing save the TV table. Nothing. Nothing Else. There it sits, spiny arm rests, ugly upholstered seat. It’s thin, carved legs resting on my maroon carpet, Catching the light from above, glinting, Mocking me with whispers, The woman it waits for. Who knew furniture could be so cruel? [comments] => 2 [counter] => 195 [topic] => 73 [informant] => SunflowersAndTea [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 9 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => abstract )
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