The cotton warmth of misgiving,
liquid promise of borrowed breath,
as simple as the vessel
in which passion stirs the need.
(The instinct is to breed)
To feel the sting of mother's hand
and find a strange comfort,
in her scolding.
Author notes
Feel free to tear it apart. Its 1 am and its all I've got right now. I may edit later.
A contest entry
- cradle by zillion.
300 points, ended October 23, 2007, 3 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Wow, nice title. The last line was perfect. Personbally, I wouldn't capitalize each line. Maybe, you should elaborate a little more on the feelings as well.
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Thank you for the useful comment. I did change the capitalization, but at the moment I seem to be suffering a block. I will try to add more later, but right now I am just drawing a blank.
Wishing you a blessed Sammhain,
Shae Lynn
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