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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Experience · #1155924
Poem of unfufilled lovers.
And though we stained our shirts with wine
we made no love among the pines
A crouching pan upon us spied
pretty flesh yet joy denied
You climbed a branch, I watched, defeated
up the tree as you retreated
I sat alone among the pines
And stained my teeth with purple wine

A bird may chirp and sing and squawk
But it will never learn to talk
I sit alone
I throw my stones

A shell before me on the needles
Creeps around like charcoal beetles
It dies and slowly rots to sand
And so he’ll never be a man
He’ll leave me here up in my birch
So I’ll take up another search.
© Copyright 2006 Rebecca Blixen (regnravn at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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