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eyes


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These are the eyes I promised to
the sun, who sought sight-to cry,
when you see the winds tell me
do they dream about the seasons
and what colour eyes are those
of winter?. My old friend can draw
the moon from memory but not me,
there is my face all aflame on a
sketchbook. You rode tigers, I
took their camouflage to hide from
danger, Whose heart was like
church bells ?-only revealed at
certain times, conveyed once in
a painting of me against night skies,
a comet almost passing through silver
ear-rings. Bells sang for medals hung
on returning troops and one silent king
with a bald sovereign containing faded
faces worn down in clenched fists and
winter's eye held in death's bellybutton
yearning to look into those of the sun.
I did cross the moon's palm with silver
hoping he would pass to haul unfading
memories that are always out of season
we shared a common dream of being in a desert
encased in ice facing each other, unsure of identity,
between us one man bell-ringing, cathedral razed
to the ground where you lost your vision.

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  • 1 month later...
David W. Parsley

Hi Barry, what a nice piece, polished of the flaws that could distract from enjoyment. No glaring misspellings or vain repetitions. All that the reader need consider is the flow of surreality through luscious language and image.

 

There may be something wanting in the final line. Perhaps something more in the vein of "where you say you lost your vision" or perhaps "mourned your loss of vision"? Also, "to the ground" is somewhat redundant and mundane. Could try "on the ground..."?

 

One more thing: I find that editors and critics these days shy away from run-on stanzas, for the most part. So I have started doing the same. Truth be told, it actually helps focus my sense of form in some ways, so I don't really mind. Just a thought.

 

Thanks,

- Dave

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