BY DR. AGONSON
And when the dream has died, no one will know.
A flippant foolishness it’s to pretend
that Life would spare me from this final end:
Not you, Life says, be gone you bitter crow.
No hope, it all has passed, an Ichabod,
a foul remorseless thing, my dreams are dead.
Despair, Life lets me live but as with lead
has weighed me down to hell, my voice has cawed.
But still, it’s life I choose to serve. My word,
written, will praise that end. Gross carrion
—on such I sup—is what I’m buried in.
My dream is dead, and I’m but a blackbird.
This is dark but exceptionally beautifully written.
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Morose…related to the “old crow” bit, lol.
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Nice connection of fading dreams and crows/blackbirds.
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I do love this… the darkness, and depression, but maybe there is somewhere a blackbird that takes flight.. and that in itself is hope I think… Or as Emily Dickinson wrote
“Hope is the thing with feathers”
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Admiring the pentameter verses, filled with darkness and despair. Still, its a life one chooses to have.
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dying dreams are a sad thing, wonder why we have hope at all. sad, melancholic verses that took me to a desolate vista, well written
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This is melancholy but very well-written. Yet, I feel some hope in the ending. Even a blackbird flies.
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