Conundrum

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    Conundrum



    A captured breath
    from the lips that sing,
    words unspoken
    and the fear they bring.

    A restless thought
    tethered to a string,
    the flower blooms
    in the warmth of spring.

    One look from you
    all my dreams take flight,
    a dried out sponge
    my senses ignite.

    A dream awaits
    an eternal night,
    an open hand
    in an arc of light.

    The sun beats down
    lovers in the shade,
    lure eternity
    with sharpened blades.

    The young get old
    as the daylight fades,
    the players try
    to guess the charade.

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    Milkman commented on Conundrum

    12-20-2011

    really like this as well, soom great lines "A restless thought .....teethered to a string" alot going on very well put together yet its meaning is nothing and everything at the same time. truly fits its title.

    Tempestlady commented on Conundrum

    01-14-2011

    The mystery of attraction, so complex are the emotions tied up with it. Wondered about the blades though? Nice imagery and wonderful rhyme. Like a dance of words on the tongue.......Write on.....Tlady

    stellar commented on Conundrum

    01-14-2011

    I enjoy the rhythm of this poem...love to read it out loud and savor its beauty...^_^ v

    AlysonAlive commented on Conundrum

    01-13-2011

    This is gorgeous! It's impossible to figure out, but it also somehow manages to form amazing imagery. (: I love your style with the verses 2 to 2. And you truly did make me think. I really like the part where you said '...an open hand/ in an arc of light.' Very nice picture forming in my head from that. Definate 10! :)

    irreverent commented on Conundrum

    01-12-2011

    I think there is such mystery hidden in your poetry - I am intrigued by this, as it seems to say one thing, then another. Truly a conundrum.

    When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.

    John F. Kennedy (1917-1963) Thirty-fifth President of the USA

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