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Did everyone die of All Poetry? The last guy out, shut off the lights.
by kirkman
0 lines,
on Sep 21 10:13 PM
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Each night "I lay me down to sleep," As when a little kid,
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In the purple clematis,
Well-hidden among the leaves,
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Have you not heard of Murphy's Law? Of it I've come to stand in awe.
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The time has come when idle thoughts And plots beyond control,
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The time has come- perhaps not quite- When I no longer long to write.
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I fell in love. Long, long ago. I was a child. I could not know
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What is this shell that once was me,
An empty self, a used to be
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Beauty becomes a shadow, Strength a foolish dream,
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The boneyard claims us all one eday And silence scores its final fray.
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Things aren't what they used to be, Or that's the way it seems to me.
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The poet is a surveyor Of phantoms within and without,
by kirkman
24 lines,
on Nov 15 1:34 PM 2008
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Now let's change a definition. What are Liberals,do you think?
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There is a reason why things age: Response to Sin. It's Nature's rage
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Curse the demons of the night! They fill the heart and dark with fright
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When the sun no longer lingers
In the stretching shades of light,
by kirkman
11 lines, 2 comments,
on Oct 4 8:29 AM 2008. In Nature
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In this world of however old (As in the Scriptures briefly told),
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If I could lay that hope aside And leave what's dead as though it died
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I know that God knows what is best, But I have failed to meet the test.
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What when there is no rose tosmell
And dew scents fail to sooth the night,
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I hate to see a church close down Where folks for years were blest.
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O would that I could understand The plight that's fallen on our land!
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"Great is the mystery of godliness,"
As though one could understand
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A Voice- The Call- that Truth compels;
Its unrelenting Wind that swells;
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Is nothing special anymore?
The girl just married...is a whore.
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I think I met a stranger.
He is someone I should know,
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We'll have the wedding in a cave
In order energy to save.
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Romantic love is just for youth.
The aging body turns uncouth.
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Ten thousand nights I waited.
A thousand times I prayed.
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There is a place of make believe
Where one can heart and eye deceive.
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There is a house of broken dreams
Where nothing is the way it seems.
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What fool is he
Who still doth wait,
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What if we never met again?
Or never say goodbye?
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