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Poetry Magnum Opus

Cleaving


fdelano

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Cleaving

 

My finger tip ridges fill with a full tear,

 

just one of a stream finding its way

 

to your throat as you stare wide-eyed,

 

nothing entering your understanding.

 

Your eyes ask how I could touch you

 

when you know I'm leaving forever.

 

If there is still caring, why are you

leaving. How can you turn away?

 

 

I cannot reply with eyes that also blur,

 

but must find the will to withdraw

 

my gaze and finger, the last connectors

 

burning with a confusion of regret.

 

 

Where will I go except to grieve?

 

What will I do with this last look

 

and touch of your skin under salty

 

emotions of already killing want?

 

 

Where will you go to fall

 

like the dropping beautiful ball

 

in Times Square as this new year

 

begins in a split second?

Edited by fdelano
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Formatting is impossible, to me. My bad.

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Formatting is impossible, to me. My bad.

 

 

Hello Fdelano

What a beautiful picture of love and parting you paint, love the metaphors, love the poem, particularly the last stanza, a joy to read.

Warm regards

Rea

Edited by Rea
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Effective, Franklin. Not that it needs it, but I'd love to know some background on the inspiration for this one.

 

Tony

 

 

PS -- What are you trying to do with the formatting?

Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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  • 2 weeks later...
David W. Parsley

I am new around here. This poem help convinced me I should join. Nuanced capture of a devastating moment.

 

- Dave

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Cleaving

 

My finger tip ridges fill with a full tear,

 

just one of a stream finding its way

 

to your throat as you stare wide-eyed,

 

nothing entering your understanding.

 

Your eyes ask how I could touch you

 

when you know I'm leaving forever.

 

If there is still caring, why are you

leaving. How can you turn away?

 

[/size]

 

I cannot reply with eyes that also blur,

 

but must find the will to withdraw

 

my gaze and finger, the last connectors

 

burning with a confusion of regret.

 

 

Where will I go except to grieve?

 

What will I do with this last look

 

and touch of your skin under salty

 

emotions of already killing want?

 

 

Where will you go to fall

 

like the dropping beautiful ball

 

in Times Square as this new year

 

begins in a split second?

 

Thank you all for finding something in this. In explanation, the N is not always the author, but almost always draws from the N's life experiences. The success of any poem is its effect on the reader, intended or not. fdh

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Larsen M. Callirhoe

wow, so sad. you pictured your words perfect. sometimes sophicticated vernacular draws me away from the authir's true vision. but i don't believe that in this instance. the choice ending of your poem is something i might never forget having stumbled upon. as sometimes in life you come upon something you will never ever forget long after the inncident happens. i believe for me this is one of thosecases. wow the ending is so perfect. thank you. franklin.

 

victor

Larsen M. Callirhoe

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wow, so sad. you pictured your words perfect. sometimes sophicticated vernacular draws me away from the authir's true vision. but i don't believe that in this instance. the choice ending of your poem is something i might never forget having stumbled upon. as sometimes in life you come upon something you will never ever forget long after the inncident happens. i believe for me this is one of thosecases. wow the ending is so perfect. thank you. franklin.

 

victor

 

 

Thanks for your words, Victor. Glad they made sense to you--or maybe not if they hit too close to home.

fdh

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Larsen M. Callirhoe

hi franklin. the ending of your poem put everything into perspective of how you wished the other person in said relationship would realize the density or magnitude of the finality of perhaps the last goodbye forever. the end really grabbed me. i used something simiilar in a poem but i lost it in a computer virus august 2002. i was so pissed off. but that is another story for another time.

 

 

 

victor

Larsen M. Callirhoe

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