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May 14, 2004 - A poem about Fear, Situations

Poem of the Husk.

Pity your eyes.
They have seen too much, but not enough.
Cross eyed stare - lost gazed across the row,
seeing detail in the detail but not the canvas.

Damn your hands.
They have felt, but do they touch?
Rough as sinew thread - hardened by ages sun,
cotton reeled and fretted like driftwood.

Curse the silence.
You do not hear, what could be said.
Murmer lost in shout - plaintive soft,
in the darkness of the quiet.

I praise your heart.
A coda strong and truthful,
still not adrift - nor blooded witness sea,
to life overflowed.

Your heart still lives, and can be heard.


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