Mark Heathcote

Gold Star - 21,601 Points (22/03/66 / Manchester)

A Poetic Exile - Poem by Mark Heathcote

What is there to berate
Life—form: Why equate
It has not any meaning..?
Every sap that's shelled-out
The husk, longs further, seeding.
'Every breath a waterspout
Leaps into death, pupate.
And is yet, still, dreaming...
Of the wings of perfection',
Too fulfil life's passion.
The gift of love's pre-emption...

Topic(s) of this poem: poem

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, February 16, 2012

Poem Edited: Sunday, March 23, 2014

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