He fled from cliche in much the same way
Liars avoid those things they have lied of
As night flees from day he fled from cliche
As an affliction that one might die of
Hearing a joke he would not smile or laugh
That would be too predictable by far
Instead he would smirk on irony’s behalf
His philosophy and soul were at war
He placed his heart in a small wooden box
Things of love are too trite to be spoken
Blood found its way through the seams and the lock
complex one day,
broken
August 4, 2004
Scott feeds his soul to the cynics
Thank christ for that – I was starting to panic. Three uborges in a row is enough to kill a lesser man.
I note, however, that you’ve broken the site. Good poetry can do this… Is this by any chance the poem for which you were previously mocked?
Nope, this poem was written on my three-hour commute last night, never before published. A Uborka exclusive.
d
Uborka is good for exclusives. The Richard Groats poem I published last night was found in a dusty pickle jar in the poet’s shed. I had saved it until now.
Much better than my poem about break ups.
And spelt correctly too.
I prefer your poem, Adrian.
This one has some problems…..you have to pronounce ‘irony’s’ as only two syllables (I’m thinking “IRE-NEES”) for the sonnet structure to hold, for example.