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In streams of Venetian gold, the day flows from the blue sky. The city is a lazy princess, adorned with sparks on her silky gown. Through the icicles, the sun has poured potions of dellicate honey. This sun I'd pick right now, to hide it in my palm and light my heart with it. So you can read in it like in an open book. And all the gold and honey of this sunset I'd pour in this goblet from which you would drink at the end of day. For you, I'd want my eyes to shine as the far-away lands and my lips taste like honey. The sunset is my love and the sky is my heart, your open book, unstained by dark clouds. And for you, I'd want to be a torch, a light, a golden flame on the snowy mountain. Now, when the sun sets, turn your heart to me, my love.


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The following comments are for "Sunset"
by Dew Of Blood

You Have a Touch
It is there and you are young so there is still hope for you. First question - are you idiot enough to want to define yourself as a writer? If so, then read on and, "Abandon hope..."

You have a weakness that can be overcome. The weakness is a desire to be "poetic" rather than to just write a poem. This is typical and, to tell the truth, I burned the stuff I wrote when I was young. It was horrible - so is yours - but in a good way.

What divides those who can from those who can't is the willingness to hone the craft. The way to tell a blade's keeness is to run it across your palm. Run poets across your palm!

You'll find the dull and the sharp ones for yourself - ours would differ, though I think you'd like William S. Burroughs. Use them as the standard by which you measure your our edge.

I expect good things


( Posted by: Enforced Bliss [Member] On: November 10, 2003 )

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