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Bout de Souffle
Out of Breath
Blank Verse
O bough,
                  whence springs the apple of my eye,
Whose apples sup the music from your skin,
Let not your fingers falter in their grip
To let the wind unclench your sturdy hand
Before your fruits with ripened melodies
Incline themselves to fall upon the clay.

O apple,
                  whose descent does me disease
For with you leaves a shiver of my flesh
And kills me, steals a seed of what I am,
And plants below the clay another tree
Whose apples taste familiar with my song
And chokes the very roots from which it sprung:
Instead, let you be plucked and carried off
And swallowed from the flesh until the core,
And let your better music be enjoyed
But bitter seed discarded and destroyed.

If I could write stuff like this I'd never get a B in Lit/Writ again.
» randomjunk on 2007-09-16 09:48:53

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