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A soup of words that tastes of sweetcorn.


Submitted:Feb 6, 2009    Reads: 90    Comments: 4    Likes: 3   


Surrounded by swaying corn

that reveals ritual winds

I watch a single cloud

journey the mast of blue above

Giddy from his travel

he seems to pause

Acknowledge my interest

then continue his course

I ponder his pilgrimage

and zephyr push

That leave him tired

and lacking real direction



As he falls behind

the frozen hands of a windmill

I fear the heavens

reflect my own awkward journey

A run that finds me static

hills that blind my future

The upward draft of opportunity

I seem all to happy to avoid

The breath of reality

which demonstrates time as real

Seems not to dry

my damp and ignorant skin



Trapped by swaying corn

or free to roam this fertile plane

Questions keep me interested

the lack of answers frustrates

The parched soil

beneath my heavy boot

Wriggles with solution

but no rains will fall today

Tomorrow the earth will crack

sending a metaphoric signal

Gates that hold back madness

have permission to leak





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