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Poem Dump 2

June 21st, 2010 (10:27 pm)

Title: N/A
Word Count: approx. 400
Beta: The entirety of my junior-year Creative Writing class.
Rating: G
Summary: N/A


Coming—
He is coming.
The pale horse rides tonight,
For all things come to dust.
So cold…


Silence all around
On a peaceful summer night
The world is sleeping


Not-so-dear Spike,
I hope this letter never leaves my desk.
No one needs to know the things that it says,
But you and I are such a complex thing,
So here I might discover what we mean.
I can’t forget the monster you once were,
The pain you brought upon the innocent.
Excuse me if I don’t believe you’ve changed.
And yet I find I trust you slightly more—
Probationary trust, you understand—
But lately I think it might start to grow.
If we keep up this strange relationship,
My job as slayer will be sacrificed.
Lives will always be endangered, so
I must leave now before I lose my nerve.
Buffy


From 1984 by George Orwell

For the first time
She was beautiful,
Coarse in the grain
Like an overripe turnip.
And why not?
Her solid, contourless body
Was a block of granite.
Her rasping red skin
Like a rose-hip to a rose.
Why is the fruit
Inferior to the flower?
Her youth was gone,
But still she sang.

How curious to think
The sky’s the same for everyone.


“Journey of a Frisbee”
My first day out
That box is gone
And I am free.
I have been lifted from the darkness
And into the air.
Above the grass I soar,
Like a bird who’s learned to fly.
They want to end my fun, I know.
His fingers brush my rim,
But undeterred, I’m flying still
Higher than I dreamed was high.
But wait, I have begun to slow
I’m losing altitude!
I sadly fall, and with a sound,
I am free no more.
The sky above is taunting me,
The birds all think I’m daft.
But for a moment I was free,
Though now I’m on the roof.


Is this bread still good?
I wonder, sniffing at the bag.
It smells like gasoline, and yet,
I see no mold at all.
Let’s give some to the dog
And if he dies, we’ll know
The bread in question wasn’t bread
But something that evolved.
And if he’s fortunate and lives,
I’ll butter it to death.
That way no one ever knows
How long I’ve had this bread.