Sharp Edges

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Sharp Edges

Serrated knives,
lying dorment in
silverware drawers.
The man sits,
lamenting, heated,
thinking of lost
opportunities.
He decides he
will not love, will
not let himself be
tender.
He meets a woman,
decides to punish her,
decides she is
worthy of his hatred.
He marries her,
degrades her;
he cheats, he lies,
he hates.
The woman bears
his children, but
he himself cannot.
They cry, but he
does not hear them
above the sound of his
own resentment.
The moments turn
into years...

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Poetry is what is lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

derryfest’s Poems (5)

Title Comments
Title Comments
The Interim 0
Winterbirds 0
Michael 0
Sharp Edges 0
Forty Seasons 0