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Click hereThe tip of the egg
resonates its proximity
in diaphanous fibers of albumen
spreading as a hand, as fingertips.
It strokes the miles left to go
as one cups a Merlot alone
at ten in the evening.
Even the sun refracts from this place;
its prisms belying its schizophrenic nature.
The closer I get,
the more repellent I become.
Maintaining this orbit, even while in perigee,
I disintegrate into light and lack and habit
of want.
You have strong images and powerful ideas here, and a nice mix of the mundane and the meaningful. A very well done piece.
This poem was mentioned in Monday's New Poem Review. Thanks for the read!
This is hauntingly beautiful. Seems so sad though. Will there ever be an apogee to complement?
nice read on a foggy morning
NJ