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How Strange (Free verse) by T. Becquerel
I met a man once
He wanted my words
But didn?t say it;
He yearned for
them
Without knowing.
He made a noise,
Perhaps it was his last cry,
Perhaps his
Typical emotional waterfall
Had made him
The messenger of
Humanity.
So I wrote my words
On a piece of paper,
Folded it,
And began
to hand it to him,
But his arm
Had already
Been wrenched
From his body.
Back to poem details
| xxx | 68.166.37.185 | 0 | June 12, 2005 7:18 AM PDT |
| Anonymous | 24.130.62.63 | 7 | October 12, 2004 12:31 PM PDT |
| Anonymous | 144.132.152.207 | 10 | November 12, 2003 5:14 PM PST |
| -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I. | 217.35.153.11 | 5 | April 3, 2003 12:59 PM PST |
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| Anonymous | 204.245.176.100 | 2 | May 16, 2002 1:25 PM PDT |
| einekleine | | 4 | May 11, 2002 7:32 AM PDT |
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