Guest kwan Posted March 16, 2002 The child, the devil, the ghost I remember, Take turn on my fingers, twist, pull, dismember. Inside the cave, under the tent, A knuckle slick and opulent, Complex, no less after dissection, A simple realisation - It bears my reflection. A pearl pompous in its own exhibition, A proud fool before an inquisition, sais to me wise lady of the moon - just a tombstone it is, forgotten by noon. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Darklight Posted March 18, 2002 Kwan, this is very beautiful ( and I normally run screaming from rhyming poetry ) But I'm not entirely sure I have the whole gist of it, care to clarify? Are you comparing the transient state of your physical reality with the timeless stasis of the moon? Or am I still clueless and waaay off? Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Guest kwan Posted March 27, 2002 Well thanks Darklight. I dont usually write poetry but I was particularly inspired by my experience. Im glad (and surprised)that you understood it. Ill need to be more cryptic next time Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Darklight Posted March 27, 2002 No don't, just write some more Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
