The wind. The wind. The wind. The wind.
Riding my hair. My sin. My sin.
The mist. The mist.
Kissing my loss. My lips. My lips.
The
The
The cold. The cold. The cold.
Folding my age. My veins. Too old.
The water. The water. The water. The water.
Freezing my death. Shiver. Shiver.
France and her welcome-wagon.
Foaming the crest, Cutting the sea
From clouds under the ocean
and the frost venturing within me.
Is this how you welcome me?
Is this how you welcome me?
Author notes
Written while on my fourteen day excursion through Europe and on the way to France.
It is my death that will mark that day.
Comments
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Wow, this is extremely incredible! I love this poem, it shows such brilliance!! You have quite a vision, and a knack for words. Never stop pursuing your talent. You are a wonderful writer. ~ kerri
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Thanks! It's hard to take your comment to heart since it is a product of shameless promotion, but thanks none the less. I appreciate the effort.
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I love the repetition. It emphasizes the things I remember most about that ride. Wind, mist, cold & most of all the water.
Where were you during that ride anyway? I don't recall seeing hardly anyone from your group.
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Thanks!
I'm glad you liked it! I spent most of the time on the top level. The one that was on top of the boat and open like a big deck. I could have been found leaning against the rail or running around with Scott being silly.
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