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Perhaps she is the blue eyed girl, still.
Beneath years and yards of something else, the heart still beats.
This is not an epic poem; there are no heroes or heroines, but
perhaps these are the only stories left, here where we live
at the ends of everything.
Monday is a liar of a day, and the rest of the week
When sense tells you that there is nothing in a Sunday?
Like a cliché, full circled to Shakespearian beat, weeping
for what all of her weeping achieved, once upon
silly, empty fairytale dreams.
She is trapped, like Sybil, to the dusts of time.
Crying wolf once makes everything lies, especially to liars.
Perhaps, by trusting in Wednesday, embracing woe
there is something to be gained, static
and steady though surrounded by change.
Perhaps she is the blue eyed girl, still.
Past tomorrows becoming yesterdays, as they will.
Dreams built upon wishes are foundations in sand,
fleeting whispers of structure, crumbling
as their dreamers will.
But, just perhaps, she is the blue eyed girl still.
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Girl from the North Country
Posted Mar 1, 2009
You picked me up with the first line, and I liked it all the way through. I liked the wording and the analogy. A lot of good stuff going on in this poem; it engaged me, and I touched me in the end.
Some of the lines just felt hard to get through, to understand.
The third stan... (
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