I remember in the sixth grade: I remember in the sixth grade doing a multispread research paper about ancient kingdoms of this region, all of that was pre-Google and a lot of "footwork." It was lots fun, though. Probably a venture with the same internsity as your Shelley days.
Now this appears to be a less: Now this appears to be a less than straightforward story and more a surreal horror vignette. A lone narrator sits on a porch under a howling moon, sensing death at the door as their thoughts unravel into strange, poetic fragments. Images of ash, fountains, and scorched land blur with muttered confessions, creating a mood of dread and madness. Beneath the gothic atmosphere, the piece reads like a meditation on mortality, futility, and the thin line between sanity and the supernatural; all with the ominous sound of “clickity clack” hinting that something is drawing ever closer.
"RADIANT BANJO"
I like the: "RADIANT BANJO"
I like the puddles with oil rainbows
There’s always something to
Tilt your head at… How strange
the clouds decided to stay! We amateur astronomers are
Solving a delicious riddle
‘Do not whistle when the
conductor is waving at you, you
reckless dreamer… now juggle…’
Decades ago, I wanted to: Decades ago, I wanted to study the Ancient History of this region. But I now realize that the footnotes, bibliographies, and debates would have sapped my enthusiasm. It took a long time to realize that; and poems like this one remind me of what I love most about that place and the various ages and cultures that have affected it. Thank you, a thousand times over for writing and posting this BRILLIANT poem!!!
Thank you so much for your compliment: Thank you so much for your compliment. It gets frustrating every day to read the paper about this man. I'm trying to express my frustration. I know I'm not alone. Thanks again for your comment.
the scrolls tilt on their: the scrolls tilt on their shelves as the ground shifts, glass trembling with the weight of heirlooms and wings; beyond the frost line, a small planet turns, its orbit tugging at the tags that rise like butterflies fleeing wrists of stone.
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