Amy May


Stars flicker a gentle hope in the death of night,
A poem, with quill and scroll, by dull candlelight.

Trees grow their gnarled path, covering the forest floor,
Horses flee, emancipation, yet so much more.

Waves crash their way into the soul of a lost man,
Beacons search, hunt as only the predator can.

Wires cut, the spirit severed, bleeding with hope,
Deer dance their fatal magic with the antelope.

Cages melt slowly under the heat of a sun,
The heart released draws back a sword, the battle won.

Forests alive, kingdoms ablaze with unique love,
Yet all he can grasp, a poem, the stars above.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, December 7, 2008

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Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

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