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Poetry

13 Mar

USA. New York. 1950.

There’s a certain poetry to his rage
The way he breaths fast
His fists curled tight
With a fire in his eyes

There’s a certain poetry to his anger
Swinging with reckless abandon
As fist meets face
And eyes turn to slits

There’s a certain poetry to his audacity
Then it dawns on him
He hit the wrong mark
And now he is a marked man

There’s a certain poetry to his helplessness
Tail between legs
Pride swallowed fast
Pedestal already abandoned

And when the truth dawns
He is left high and dry
With a straight-jacket that squeezes
Injured ego at hand

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Posted by on March 13, 2015 in Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

 

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