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Ghosts are Dead and Life is imperfect (standard:poetry, 89 words)
Author: briley wellingsAdded: Nov 25 2003Views/Reads: 1833/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A blank page says nothing, and although beautiful in it's perfection, it is imperfect in it's blinding congruence.
 



Frantic facinations flood a finger's stride. 

Frantic, since words not tied to parchment 

float wildly 

with low tides and driftwood. 

Facinating, because once tied, 

Words can burn skulls and scald tongues. 

My pale page pushes me, puzzles me. 

Craving congruent perfection, 

Turning it's corpse white face 

from invading pen points. 

But once punctured by reality, 

Perfection's pale flesh lay freckled 

By blemishing light and words forged in truth. 

Fantasy falls flat 

Afront this finger's stride. 

This ink's black path 

Brings boys before themselves, 

And before themselves they are men.


   


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