This one is right on time (Day 3)
Oct. 3rd, 2012 05:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
For an explanation of what the heck I'm doing and why the donate button is there, go to the link.
Now onward for Day 3 of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge, posted RIGHT on time this time.
Day 3: Find the nearest book (of any kind). Turn to page 8. Use the first ten full words on the page in a poem. You may use them in any order, anywhere in the poem.
Sentence: "In the second it takes you to read this sentence" from "Wired for Story" by Lisa Cron
It takes time to realize that
the larger the pain the more
it will only ever ebb slowly
away like a bathtub overfill
with old pipes that
seem to stop at impasses periodically
and may not restart
leaving the cold mirk there,
leaving the cold sweat still coming
down your skin in drops that roll
disgusting reminders, the finger
of agony itself ghosting
down your spine.
Even with a foretold ending,
the sentence becomes interminable
You believe like the gospel you read
in that you don't believe at all
'til you see that this isn't all of eternity
This is the nature of the long and chronic
of small blossomed seconds or two in
which you can flow forward, in which
the throb, the ache, the burn receeds and you
are this whole thing, not a slow sludge
towards a relative improvement
if it exists, you think, you hope
second over and the truth is, that you
would not be afraid to let the clock stop here, forever
'til you see that old water line
And onward you slurp and sludge and drain
to the never there finish line called "better"
Now onward for Day 3 of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge, posted RIGHT on time this time.
Day 3: Find the nearest book (of any kind). Turn to page 8. Use the first ten full words on the page in a poem. You may use them in any order, anywhere in the poem.
Sentence: "In the second it takes you to read this sentence" from "Wired for Story" by Lisa Cron
It takes time to realize that
the larger the pain the more
it will only ever ebb slowly
away like a bathtub overfill
with old pipes that
seem to stop at impasses periodically
and may not restart
leaving the cold mirk there,
leaving the cold sweat still coming
down your skin in drops that roll
disgusting reminders, the finger
of agony itself ghosting
down your spine.
Even with a foretold ending,
the sentence becomes interminable
You believe like the gospel you read
in that you don't believe at all
'til you see that this isn't all of eternity
This is the nature of the long and chronic
of small blossomed seconds or two in
which you can flow forward, in which
the throb, the ache, the burn receeds and you
are this whole thing, not a slow sludge
towards a relative improvement
if it exists, you think, you hope
second over and the truth is, that you
would not be afraid to let the clock stop here, forever
'til you see that old water line
And onward you slurp and sludge and drain
to the never there finish line called "better"