Day Eighteen: I'm doing a spin on the actual prompt (which is to write a poem beginning and ending with the same word) and trying a circular poem, one that ends and then rolls back into itself. Get it? Spin?
these morning hours
bring us no new peace.
There are only bloated lies
blurred and buried,
just the tops peeking out
while the rest lurk
and wait, hungrily,
feverishly, to spear the hull.
And neither is there new life,
just safe, weary rumblings
made by the dead,
as the dead have earned them,
asleep and alive within and
breeding malice simply because
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Radiohead, The Tourist
It would be interesting to attempt a reading of this with several participants.
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