Like spiders they weave a web. The incidents.
The spring on your garden and the girl who
Lives on selling flesh are meeting somewhere
At some point, some place. So, You never know
That you will meet her at this house of death.
The morgue, you in search of body, she too.
You collect it for college. She for grief.
A cliché and a frozen sun. a hall
And a conversation, a twinkle unknown,
And runaway to a road less traveled
Till you end up at your garden with spring.
She smiles and you blast with laughter
Yonder a small spider weaving its web...


Comments: 34
The group: We Comment Back
It would help us in our connection of Dreams and Poetics.
Of course, I realize that this is in other Groups as well, so please indulge us on this one.
Blessings ~
Your Friend,
Rene
My congratulations! "a story turned into a poetry" is currently featured on The Sound Of Poetry Review through Sunday, June 08, 2008. Please, keep submitting your poetry. Many thanks, the TSOPR Editor.