Writing in this formality called prose, there was something unforgotten beyond tapered cataclysm called poetics; and there was the words of which every convienent paraphrase lurked.
And in only two lines, so solidarity, my mind hovers between chiseled, manicured lawns and cracked concrete lying alongside boulevards –avenues unchanged although ink never ceased to admit any formal apologies….
Grand on what’s being thought about, isn’t it?
In a list
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Comments
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Loveeeeeeeeee the format. The poem really goes onto the different levels, but it concrete in its own way. Your last line, though ironic, wasn't my favorite. Your first two [as the poem is focused on] were the best in my eyes. They really had something going there.
With that being said though, the second stanza held firm by itself also.
This one needs some time to digest in me. :]
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