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White Apple

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A scarred placid lake
Presents an uphill climb to a
Box of melodies in
Red, yellow, blue.
The soundtrack of lungs about to burst and
Dreams of senseless truth.
First times, last times, all the times.
A pack rat of tunes.
Skinned knees, broken bones,
Birds chirping, skipping stones.
Yours, mine, ours,
A scrapbook of dreams.
A baby’s first cry,
A mother’s hard work,
An old man’s knowledge;
A collage of beautiful minds,
A snapshot of self.





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This article has 3 comments. Post your own now!

twilight-terror said...
Dec. 24, 2008 at 2:45 am
Amazing poem Mary. I love it! -Mercedez
 
Felicia328 said...
Dec. 24, 2008 at 2:39 am
I like this. I might add a little to the end, just to make it seem more complete. It kind of just ends, you know what I mean? Good job though.
 
SinfulRoyalty said...
Dec. 24, 2008 at 1:49 am
This is really good, Mary! Keep writing!
 
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