I've seen the telltale signs,
The smoke which leaves no scent;
That egg you on; the carrots,
And the silence.
Now where did the fiddler go?
Must have slipped off the roof;
After all, it's been raining for years.
A cleansing of sorts,
Which left nothing to desire.
The open window might explain it all;
Except, the particles are rushing inwards,
Not out, as expected.
Maybe an implosion is overdue?
To reset, to start anew?
Or it might just be, that the answer
To this punishing conundrum
Resides in quite another place?
Inhale, exhale, expunge at last,
To restart this damned riddle.
Poetry by Thomas Selnes
Read 775 times
Written on 2007-09-15 at 15:48
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