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Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Poem

Mercifully short post today.



Caught in convulsions,

Remaining in a still life,

Owned by the sad clown.



And what of dreams?

The kind when the lights are out

Morning becomes dusk,

Twisting memories turned foul,

Brought by the gnarled hand,

Of decayed innocence.


Note: The first stanza is a direct reference to Sarah McLachlan's song "Sad Clown" from her 1987 album "Touch".

4 comments:

  1. I get a perfect mental image of a forty-ish guy saying this to himself while smoking a cigar and sitting on a bench.

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    1. Wow! you're close, I was saying the lines to myself smoking a cigarette on my back porch last night, before posting it.

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  2. Fantastic poem! Such dark imagery. :)

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    1. Thank you, Cherie. I love your blog.

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