Flit, flit, flit. A toccata of images,
Individual powers and separate all,
But in my memory a blur of hazyness,
Melting together and fused like fugue.
A gifted of whirrings attacks my conscious,
A practiced rail of killing rooo.
Red white blue grey punches my eyeballs;
An image, perhaps? A statement of a kind?
Thirteen, then BANG! You're dead in a second,
And yet we trust in luck to pay.
Still we laugh as we ask for our refund,
BANG! You'll not see another Christmas day.
But a bridge, such a concept.
A station of life.
Signalling hope and a furtherance of beginning.
Running us through. Running us through.
A metaphor that works through quixotic absurdity;
A journey, a stop, from A to B.
Life has fun as we all could, should see.
Running us through. Running us through.
Running us through, eternally.
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| Writing Prompt |
Share with us one of your oldest pieces of poetry, exactly as you wrote it. It doesn?t need to be your earliest work - just something old enough that you can see your progression as a writer. I want to see all those excessive ellipses, capitals at the start of every line, the abundance of semicolons, the pretentious repetition, the unnecessary line spaces that are.....
SO.....
IMPORTANT....
to my art!
I want you to swear on your honour you won't edit it before posting (adding an image is allowed, as we're in Fanstory Land). Other than that, no limitations.
Previous entrants are more than welcome, but remember these must be pieces you haven?t shared previously on Fanstory. Go digging in your old school notebooks with random scribblings in them - find us something fun and interesting!
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