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    He

    driving down the highway,
    the wind flashing so fierce,
    screaming as the torrents of rainfled softly down the earth

    for, there near the end of the road in a carraige black as death,
     sat a man awaiting,the beggining of my last breathe

    still as shadows was he, yet brighter than the stars,
    as the drifting moonlight glittered, on the planet known as mars.

    he came from off the earth, he came from far away,
    i wondered what he was as he devoured ysterday

    with a shaking hand and throbbing heart, i approached the man with heed.and then i passed into the shadow, rather blissfully.

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    Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.

    T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

    edwardauron’s Poems (5)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    The Blackest Despair 0
    He 0
    The Silence of Solitude 0
    The Human 0
    Half and Half 1