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He washed up worn out and wet
from a sea with a bed ready for him.
He refused sleep
denied refuge and instead
arose and aroused his aching limbs
with further determination.
Looking around on higher ground
her saw more than he thought he could see
in a lifetime. The signs were all there:
Days of floating mindlessly,
nights of terror, confusion and bone busting coldness,
days of empty skys with no decor
an empty unimaginative blue canvas,
until a painter decides to paint a green dot
that over time transforms into something clear
and beautiful.
Relieved and thankful to all that he is and all he will ever be
due to his wondrous survival,
he kisses the ground and is stung dead by a scorpion.

I am a misunderstood genius.

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The following comments are for "Sting in the Tale"
by damaged

Vivid picture of horrible futility. Sad really! Good poem.

( Posted by: jonpenny [Member] On: December 29, 2009 )

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