Tortoise
One last long
sweep, fluid as fine
writing. When she goes
she scoops then smoothes
past what myriad futures rest
in uncertain sand, the countless
clutch waiting on time, waiting on one
certain time, a singularity then
racing to the mystic blue green deep
home to legions still one always
in the eye of this ancient
mariner slowly keeping
the eternal.
1 comment:
I like the sound of this one. Really well done - i think the tempo is well-worked as well. My only complaint is this line: clutch waiting on time, waiting on one certain time. I think time is repeated too much here taking away from the poem and the tempo of the poem. Other than that a good read.
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