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A maze of cheap thought trivialized,
A fake naive lure toward a brilliant star,
Infatuation broken: betoken too far.
Casting back my old fishing rod,
Hearing the wood creak as I spar
And seeing the lure come up short
And knowing the fish will always escape
And knowing my spirit may never,
By knowing this line may sever
As I stand on the eroding shore.

I put back my line like I've done before,
Disinclined, relucant, resigned, unsure,
The rod resting on my heart impure.
I cast the old rod for the last time,
Hearing the drop of the lure
And the seeing the rod crack
And knowing the fish has escaped,
And knowing my spirit uncovered
By revealing this mind recovered
Near the age-old glen.

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The following comments are for "The Glen"
by macman202

This poem has struck a personal cord with me. I recently lost a close uncle, who's passion in life was fishing, he loved it so much. Your poem captures all the things I'm sure he enjoyed about it, and reminds me so much of him, I can see him.
Executed really well,

( Posted by: c.lynagh [Member] On: April 7, 2003 )

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