Sophie Arden

The Condition

Ah, there it is,
that need to cry.
This eye silver I never cherished,
but always longed to expel.
It only takes a word, a memory of a shadow,
and all that lay dormant does stir,
All that was silent will scream.
For broken hands can not cling to dreams,
nor spliced hearts sing in the crisp morn.
For longing is desperation,
and living exacerbation.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, November 15, 2005

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Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening



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