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Ghosttown No tumble weed city in gray fog, Babylon's mirage. Now, long after the Hegira your echoes finally died. I followed them on foot for awhile, hearing the meter vanishing, witnessing the sense departing. Was it the ear, or the mind imagining? How do you plant a gravestone in this ephemera? Almost forty score poems in, I write for the first time an original on your deathbed, typing tears on your pillowcase page of submission. Ninety-six credits piled high in my silo, with no body left to eat them, with no doors to creak, with no tumbleweed to run down. |
Additional Notes:
You can see this formatted as intended on my facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/MSS321
This Poem was Critiqued By: Lora Silvey On Date: 2017-06-13 14:39:28
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
A wonderful poem and so spot on...It is truly a shame what has transpired with the site. Best always with your endeavors in the craft. Lora