Raw Modernist Inklings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
An unfashioned poem scrawled on my arm

Submitted: February 10, 2010

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Submitted: February 10, 2010



held in this face, its lips of steel

I chance to use words to make time mine

but soaring language cannot conceal

that truth and falsehood are soaked in wine

a journey of life, a torment and thrill

this raging earth and built to last

shrewdly we forage, we're waiting still

for the present to be worthy of the past

as time springs anew, the past disappears

blooms flaunt wet and gay on the tree

a wind from the east soothes our fears

time now to be lost in the folds of the sea

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