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"Communication"

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Wed 17/03/04 at 23:23
Moderator
"possibly impossible"
Posts: 24,985
Came across this while looking at old, old posts, I quite liked it, which is unusual for my own work, so I thought I'd inflict it upon you poor soles. More of a song than a poem.

Communication
-------------

It’s late in the evening,
The sun left last week.
Like the clock, always ticking,
I just cannot sleep.
I heard you were nearby,
But we never speak.
I’m telling you now how I feel.

The moon keeps its mocking,
The stars shed no light.
I can’t see for looking,
What’s wrong and what’s right.
I heard you knew something,
I hid out of sight.
So I’m telling you now that I feel.

The pen seems to fail me,
The paper is bald.
It sits there, just staring.
While I’m growing old.
Where was the ending?
The tale never told?
And I’m telling you now it’s for real.

I can’t face the phone call,
I can’t bridge the line.
Perhaps you will come round,
Perhaps I’ll be fine.
The tale has no ending,
Or is it just mine.
Perhaps it’s just something I feel.
Thu 18/03/04 at 04:02
Regular
Posts: 8,220
Flowed very well, I liked it
Wed 17/03/04 at 23:30
Regular
"Monochromatic"
Posts: 18,487
I'm always tempted to post my own stuff.
It's quite similar.
Wed 17/03/04 at 23:26
Regular
Posts: 14,437
That's very well written. I enjoyed.
Wed 17/03/04 at 23:25
Regular
"Monochromatic"
Posts: 18,487
yes i like it a lot.
Wed 17/03/04 at 23:23
Moderator
"possibly impossible"
Posts: 24,985
Came across this while looking at old, old posts, I quite liked it, which is unusual for my own work, so I thought I'd inflict it upon you poor soles. More of a song than a poem.

Communication
-------------

It’s late in the evening,
The sun left last week.
Like the clock, always ticking,
I just cannot sleep.
I heard you were nearby,
But we never speak.
I’m telling you now how I feel.

The moon keeps its mocking,
The stars shed no light.
I can’t see for looking,
What’s wrong and what’s right.
I heard you knew something,
I hid out of sight.
So I’m telling you now that I feel.

The pen seems to fail me,
The paper is bald.
It sits there, just staring.
While I’m growing old.
Where was the ending?
The tale never told?
And I’m telling you now it’s for real.

I can’t face the phone call,
I can’t bridge the line.
Perhaps you will come round,
Perhaps I’ll be fine.
The tale has no ending,
Or is it just mine.
Perhaps it’s just something I feel.

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