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By Pessall Brook
The remnants of a myth
torn like sodden paper
A worker in the world of words
now where are your opus lines
where does your gilded poetry reside
A hooded figure
cloaked by Pessall Brook
looking for lighthouses
searching for the sea
O, how did you go
this far wrong?
Show me your pages
blackened with rhymes
your songs of tides
and ships to far away islands
Thunder clapping above
r...
Wednesday 11th December 2024 1:45 pm
Thrill of the Compass Spin
The fizz, the ghostly drag
invisible hands guiding these wanton bodies
I feel my compass spin
drawn in endless circles
Can I claim it as the artist’s curse
the love for new adventure
the pleasure of magnetic hearts
freshly spinning so close to us
whipping the iron filings of our creativity
into some explosive blur
a manifest black energy
But is it a curse at all
the thrill of the c...
Tuesday 23rd February 2016 10:40 am
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