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Post by Nature's Fury on Mar 27, 2004 2:52:14 GMT -5
I stand alone under a street-lamp the corner of two dark lanes with the stars of spring fading above
City hot air pulls at my clothing scented with oil and cars driving before it dead and filthy leaves
Sounds and light flooding the night life polluting the concrete maze in which I find myself, night after night
I look down the lane, and down the next few are out, fewer still aware many stumble by me drunk and filthy
I wait while the hours hurry past wondering why I stay here beneath the fuzzy light of the lamp
I fear to move on, to leave the light while people stumble on drunken, disoriented dangerous
I stand awaiting the time when all will be gone and the streets will be mine alone
then I will walk alone in the night down the lane, and down the next seeking the cool free night that long ago stopped existing in the city
Its late, I'm bored, and I have been needing to write a poem for a few days... so here it is. Its not great, I don't even know what it means, or who it is, or why they are there, but thats ok. The poem wanted to be written and I have written it, so its all good.
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Post by Archagon on Mar 28, 2004 1:26:44 GMT -5
That's all right. There was once a quote (although I don't remember it exactly) that said that creative works aquire lives of their own after they are written or composed. Perhaps we have it all wrong...perhaps they are already there, waiting for us to discover them. After all, words are always plentiful, but words with emotion and meaning rarely are.
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