A Child, New Out of Limbo

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That always chilly waiting room
is left behind. Now can he cry
in warmth, in a less empty space,
though one lacking
some philosophy. No longer

is he rocked to sleep by Plato
or gruff Socrates. Now he sleeps
under his God's careful flannel—
though yet as dead and dully quiet
as under Augustine, when sentenced

that last time, in worldly antiquity.
He misses the womb, that bassinet
where he last was safe and loved.
But here, at least, he cries in warmth
and sometimes even cardinals are moved.

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2 Comments
tazz317tazz317almost 12 years ago
DONT LIGHTEN UP YET

the purgatory is awaiting. TK U MLJ LV NV

wildsweetonewildsweetonealmost 17 years ago
poetry forum

i mentioned this poem in the new poem review thread in the poetry forum - wildsweetone

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