Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Poetry Year September 26

Stride of seven leagues,
the steps from the primitive,
to the primitivist,
be beyond what was before.

Clatter cop, on old tin roof,
the hail would fell and fall,
until the ears rattled of all,
who lived within the hall.

Snow white, your skin defines you,
so pure of essence,
that virginity of spirit,
that denies you any space to breath.

Mother goose, how many have you taught
the leery lessons of an colder age,
an age of ale and draught?

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