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- Death-Calm -new-
Sara Dickson Poems
Second, blink and then it's gone, Gone away, moving on, Ticked by the needle slick and black Thin and slender, bulk it lack,
The death-calm took ahold of me Swift, without cacophony A sweet proposition Whispered in my ear, and
Love's Plot: Part One
If one were to call, 'Pon my silky name, Let it be heard, That my intentions were,
Descending rapidly down the slick tunnel, The icy catacomb where souls lay at rest, A pitch black chasm teeming with iniquity, The rapacious fissure absent of warmth,
Alien Panda Chocolate Warriors
Flash white, black white, Swords a slicing in mid-flight, Chocolate pieces are chopped off, S'well as limbs of flesh do cough,
Blaze, sun, blaze you fire streak, Above horizon ashen sneak, Specked with brilliant heat from molten core, Ball of flames such orange pumpkin,
The wind as soft as baby skin, Calling out to swirling kin, No answer, scream the wind with anger, Beat against and wither earth,
Gaping jaws fill'd silver ashes, Teeth of ivory yet toothless gnashes, Protruding fangs far from his lashes, Shards of rock like steel blades stained.
The wolf, the twisted, wretched creature of shadows, Sat in the center of the underworld, Waiting for the next dying soul to come within his reach, Controls the balance of life and death so cruel,
Comments about Sara Dickson
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Second, blink and then it's gone,
Gone away, moving on,
Ticked by the needle slick and black
Thin and slender, bulk it lack,
Energy steady, never to yawn.
Minute, gears spin round one time,
Single file in crooked line,
Sixty seconds stroll on past,
While teeth grinding push on to last,
Strong bronze fingers sturdy yet fine.
Hour, class, come in right now,
Come in quickly, I'll show you how,
Hands they point round circle room,
Endlessly moving, never find doom,
So praise this object, before it bow.
Day, month, year, decade, ...