Stephen Crane lies open on the table.
Life is struggle, that is the given.
It is also alive with glittering shards
of color. Bloodreds, green and gold,
the snow-froth at the top of waves.
He is a priest of seeing.
He dies at 29.
Stephen Crane lies open on the table.
Life is struggle, that is the given.
It is also alive with glittering shards
of color. Bloodreds, green and gold,
the snow-froth at the top of waves.
He is a priest of seeing.
He dies at 29.
As a death oriented writer I agree with the premise of this poem. I also believe that our only consolation is primarily visual, so, I would love to see just one more line with another image. I think it would set up your concluding lines rhythmically. Otherwise, a nice, tight poem!
I’ve actually been thinking about one more visual! Thanks, Steve.
On Thursday, October 30, 2014, john mann poems wrote:
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