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where
where
curiousity hides under
leafs of shade
where
i turn around
to hear my name
the quiet lane
of broken bricks
of weeping willows
surrounding it
i hear my name
in icy tones
written in dust
arranged
in bones
they have no shame
these discarded twigs
that bend and brake
like brittle sticks
their creaks and cracks
makes up part of the melody
that echoes down the lane
so haungtingly
and the other part
the droning moans
of drowning souls
rising
fast
from the banks
below
floating in
through
the tangled mist
bleeding into
the cracking bricks
and i wander here
when i'm all alone
when no one
is near
enough to know
the path
i take
to reach this lane
and the end of it
where
i slip away
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Wow, William Carlos Williams.. the Red Wheelbarrow...
Thanks for the comment. I think my poetry is awful. It rhymes, but doesn't flow at all. At least someone likes it though.