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To Henry David Thoreau The night Doesn’t have to speak The room turned cold Egotistic macabre An aeon Sequestered and Being lonely on the bed Shivery Agitated nightmarish Repulsive grim from a clock That eyed a mascaron cheek In the wall Living in an errand not your country Staring The far distance and the space of the eye through Unbearable Silence The miles off star Whose red light blear and blurry Pause in reverie Metaphorical air And endless nudge of solitude Stuttered Wind peeked Sidled Fluttering between small crack Down the door Slithered And traveled at mattress Crept at the curtain Drew near And it leave hastily.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015

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Date: 3/24/2016 6:36:00 PM
awesome poem, Herbert. LINDA
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Date: 1/16/2016 4:57:00 PM
Herbert, deep write....... great free verse. SKAT
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