Sculptures Poem by Neil Crawford

Sculptures

Rating: 5.0


Spark fresh the rusting motor,
spoke anew the broken wheel,
with neither genesis or nemesis,
an outcome of the mass.

Grip the scrap and forge again,
out of the ash a phoenix rose,
I clipped its wings and called it'pure'
we watched it plunge from silver clouds.

Saturday, April 21, 2012
Topic(s) of this poem: clouds,rose,silver,wings
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Neil Crawford

Neil Crawford

CHESTER, ENGLAND.
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