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Sun
over smog, like
a light struggling to
become clear, over the
makeshift heads of buildings.
             I wave
my hand like a flag and
hope that I am still patriotic.

Across the street there
are single candles, standing
like houseplants
on the seventh floor sills.  

You look away, a window closing
I draw the curtains.

Solos burst free from
a carefully orchestrated
week. I listen to the hum
inside my chest, then
surrender it to the traffic
though just along the river
thin red-tipped reeds sprout out of wanting
I spent half my life paying tribute to the imperfections of the human being, a month turning that over and insisting on perfection, and now I am back
at the beginning.
It's a swooping sad and wonderous song.
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:iconashellessmind:
ashellessmind Featured By Owner Jun 14, 2009
Sun
over smog, like
a light struggling to
become clear, over the
makeshift heads of buildings.


single candles, standing
like houseplants
on the seventh floor sills.

Solos burst free from
a carefully orchestrated
week.



---- Some really great lines in here. As those I put above. What it means aside, this poem just sounds lovely. When you think about what it actually means, it is that much better. It is ironically perfect (or at least it appears that way), if you will allow me that.

You should try to publish this.
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:iconmyseity:
mySeity Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2009
Thank you. That's a lovely way of looking at it, and I appreciate the time you took to point it out + isolate those lines! I will keep you updated if I send this one out :)
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:iconfledgist:
Fledgist Featured By Owner Jun 10, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
Lovely!
Reply
:iconmoondrunk:
moondrunk Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2009   Writer
i'm still fond
of a bruise
Reply
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