don’t fight it-
this mudslide of swollen dreams
that whisks you toward the grave.
don’t say its
more than you can take
just take it-
over your skin, smooth like gin,
in a glass that is black
so you can’t see a thing
till it’s all too late.
flesh pressed against
the gate
foolish
hopes drip away,
gurgling down the
drain.
used to think
you would die if it all
turned out this way.
Then it did.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
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6 comments:
your right. we should all embrace our lives even when it becomes a horrifying flight.
This is another clever poem, Sara. I love the analogy of skin & gin.
hug.
I really like this. It makes you think.
Hey Susan!
Thanks for stopping by. As always I am very appreciative of your continued support and friendship.
Hugs,
Sara
Bella donna,
nice to meet you. It was sweet of you to take the time to comment on this poem. You gave me new insight into how a reader might interpet it.
Sara
beautiful again. the mud and the clogginess of it and how the mudslide and the grave are tied togehter metaphorically..
one of your dark pieces.
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