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love hurts |
Parnassus was the prize.
She
breezed, I struggled.
Soon I will be so very old
and now Atthis loves another.
"Go
to her," I said and still I hoped;
but she stays silent.
At times, old insecurities come to the fore, hand in hand with wistful memories of past lovers, loss, death and grief. At other times, I have bitter quarrels with God late into the night about sin, redemption and child-death; and when solace will not come, in despair, I run for shelter to life's true confessional—poetry.
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famine |
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A beautiful young girl enchants the boys in this coming-of-age
poem. |
We were both exquisite dancers.
Tranced in the scent of prime tobacco
from the burnt-out valley, we twirled each
day at noon on a highly polished music box
all through the scorching days of summer.