EDIT 1 26/9/05
Annual
When roads are worked to a stage Where they lose the point of taking me Between where I haven't reached And where I am tired of seeing, I write a poem.
Or rather, a stanza worms its way Up to me, yearly, without teeth But toying with speech and the idea Of grammar, sometimes metre and rhyme, To charm your smiles.
And just as quickly, once its written, The muse goes to sleep for another 365 days, give or take, until it seems She was beheaded one week behind The stacks of papers.
So it goes, I have exactly nineteen Steps through verse set down by hand, With each containing the words; 'If this happens to be the last, know that I wrote, as well'.
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Annual
When roads are worked to a stage Where they lose the point of taking me Between where I haven't reached And where I am tired of seeing, I write a poem.
Or rather, a stanza worms its way Up to me, yearly, without teeth But toying with speech and the idea Of grammar, even metre and rhyme, Though rarely so much.
And just as quickly, once its written, The muse is gone to sleep for another 365 days, give or take, until it seems She was beheaded one week behind The stacks of papers.
So it goes, I have exactly nineteen Steps through verse set down by hand, And each one contains the words; 'If this happens to be the last, know that I wrote, as well'.
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Notes: The tone here is similar to other poems I've put on this forum, so I am concerned the voice is wearing thin. Let me know if there's anything to be gained from altering the energy behind the poem, or anything else really.
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