Sunday, October 18, 2009

Poetry Year October 12

Some say he left in anger,
some say he left in haste,
some say he made it out,
others that he was ground to paste.

In some sources, scribed in variant dialect,
he sailed another sea, between the monsters that guard
the entrance between thee and me.

He, my darling, is, as always you,
that hero of some archaic epic,
carved in my mind, your profile,
sharp and stony, granite crest perfection.

Jaw just so, this I know,
the compass carried of determination.

Lest these frail rhymes betray my thoughts,
you know what other may or mayn't say,
means that all their somes, sum to naught.
Of your many musts, there is but only ought.

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