October 4, 2010
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Stomach curling
On a floor of icy shards-
The whirl of laconic players stomp gruffly,
A body tense and clamped in the grip of heat
One suspended between sweat and chill
In the pale shadows of midnight
A rustling form within blue blankets
Checkered with monotony

Is it a dream?
Or the stumbling out of a dream
In the dreary morning hours
Of dead man crying in a forgotten grave
Amongst silver birch trees and perfect trackless paths

Perchance we find direction, compass swinging
Lands on some obscure location
Of purple backdrop and mellow harmonies,
Blending a single cellist’s tune
Lilting steps of a melodic scale

We are the lost
Homeless wanderers
Shifting clocks and chasing time
Juggling dead weights with a broken chuckle
Echoing from some foreign cave
We drown on seconds; choke on hours
Returning to past rooms
Peering through doors and brick windows.

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BoosflashThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Oct. 20, 2010 at 6:14 pm
i love the last stanza. not that the whole thing isnt awesome-because it is, but you know, its easier to know what you're eating when you know what it tastes like. do your dance captain.
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