The Seasons of Sundays and frosted intentions in the front pew, third seat.
The boy with a freckled spine who brought out the end of nothing.
Caught my spiraling fingertips and never let go.
Twisted into form, dissolving into shape.
Rusted remnants of today.
Dusty memories of his voice, his truck, that field.
Rings on fingers, ropes on throats.
Vacant goodbyes.
And the drumming of rain on a roof.
Author notes
Option 5.
Lines Used:
1.Seasons of Sundays
2.frosted the intentions
3.end of nothing
4.Twisted into form
5.Rusted remnants of today
6.And the drumming of rain on a roof
A contest entry
- Battle Of The Muse. Fighting With Ink: {ROUND ONE} by PerfectImperfection.
900 points, ended June 20, 2007, 26 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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This is a lovely piece with powerful descriptions, however each line feels a little stilted; they don't flow too well together. Perhaps some commas or enjambment could have helped there.
I really love the line "Rings on fingers, ropes on throats."
Thanks for entering.
DancingRed.
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yeah. i know.
i dont really like this poem at all.
but i wrote it when i was trying to cure writer's block.
thanks for the comment, though.
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This has some great potential, but seems to have been condensed in thought. The story here, the plot, begins to unfold - and then ends abruptly. Good use of the phrases, weaving them well into your piece - however I would have hoped for more. Thank you so much for your entry & Best wishes in the contest!
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