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Monday, January 20, 2014

The Fable Of The Poet And The Page

For a moment their two sets of eyes embrace;
Hers are empty, unknown, yet filled with possibility
Like the black be-speckled with stars of deep space…
…His vocal words the same – they lack any social ability.

His hands are the predator, her body his prey;
The tension of initial contact – thrills and kills.
The imagination could drive her emptiness away,
With soft strokes of ink which spills and fills.

Though, this is their first contact and meeting –
Yet they`ve seen each other, some close copy before;
But, those memories fail to attract – images fleeting,
In this this instant there is an energy of something more.

It seems their actions will, simply, remain
Predicated on the established code;
His thoughts, a smile with a silent refrain
Her story, a coy grin and an unsung ode.

Although the sweetness of their rendezvous seems perennial,
This fantasy is not continual nor stable;
They`re in the hundred and first year of their centennial,
And at the end of the celebration of their fable.


Composed By: A. D.

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