Hi all, I fight and I fight and I fight but eventually I have to surrender. After a decade of inveighing against blank verse, a decade of protest against the lethargic abuse of poetic meter and verse, I have finally been beaten down by the progression of post-Modernism into giving the bally thing a shot. Anyway for all it is worth , here goes,
Baleful prosody for a bed
The pillow slumps belligerent,
Though shiny with ages of oily grime
The iron cot lies passive; equable
Flakes of brown paint irritably peeling
The coverlet, limp, amorphous
Gingerly noisome with all too human odors
How useless, yet how so very intimate
As all things truly beautiful are
Out beyond the ideas of right-doing or wrong-doing there is a field - I'll meet you there.
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About Me
- Nisheeth
- I is a place-holder to prevent perpetual infinite regress. I is a marker on the road that ends in I not being.
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