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An empty chasm eons wide,
An open, gaping hungry maw,
A wound with edges ragged worn
And by our salty tears kept raw
Lies smirking, dark between us two
Uncrossable, slopes far too steep.
You lie grieving on the one side-
On the other bank, I weep.

I try to fill it even now
By casting poems into the black;
Mere pebbles, plinking off the walls
But darling, poems are all I have.
I’ll write until the Doomsday, love
With ink of blood, and quills of bones
If only for the chance I might
Yet walk to you on tiny stones.




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The following comments are for "Casting Stones"
by DameSansMerci

once again
a pert, piquant, well-put-together poem, the images as sharp and hard as those tiny stones, although personally, I could've done without the "ink of blood" line. it isn't that it doesn't fit here, but that I've heard the comparison before in too many bad poems, [which this is not] so the image was kind of spoiled for me... that, however, is just my personal unqualified opinion, which honestly isn't worth much... keep doing what you do. you write well.

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: June 4, 2008 )





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