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The Burning Of The Sting

He stood for an hour in silence

And tried to recall

The last time her glance

Had shadowed him.

 

Flat back in the park

He remembers

The unfurnished blossom

And copperfumes

Of the smelting city.

 

They were happy then.

Swatting off wasps

In the brazen heat

Of that afternoon.

 

But a wasp landed quick.

Perched on his elbow

Pierced through to the bone

And she had to leave early

 

For then and forever.

Her image replaced

By the burning of the sting

And now that sting

Is all he can remember.

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Comments

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Andy N

Mon 11th Jul 2011 08:07

I agree with Micheal here... It's a beauitful poem, Kealan - I think you are on fire at the moment with your stuff... I particularly like the first three stanzas here, but the full piece was excellent.. Keep it up! A

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Noetic-fret!

Sun 10th Jul 2011 20:33

This short and simple poem left me wanting more. I wanted the detail and story behind it. Good poem though, just wish there had been more to it. kinda got me intrigued.

I tried to chat to you last night (sat) on the chat in here but no joy. will try again soon.

stay well kealan. You write some fantastic work.

Michael

xxx

Philipos

Sun 10th Jul 2011 14:28

This is a really well thought through and evocative poem - liked especially the metaphor of the wasp sting - stood bare foot on one once - boy did that hurt and never forgotten - the second stanza in your poem is my fav.

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