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Jack Loring Poem
A feeling,
unbearable calls–
toward its trumpets
I do fall,
aware but undefined,
long, lost winding coast–
I come, then settle in
alone again,
Siddhartha's son,
the ascetic life begins.
Copyright © Jack Loring | Year Posted 2007
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Details |
Jack Loring Poem
The drunken child-- she emulates the moon.
The stench of perfume and alcohol
fills the stage upon which the actors observe,
her drunken swerve.
She fades and reappears faster than
a bird at dawn, she is not tame--
No! she is not tame
Copyright © Jack Loring | Year Posted 2007
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