Unnamed Poem by M.A. Wood

Unnamed



A building, a flaw, a war of so much dismay,
The vine which climbs, chokes the fateful sorrow,
The blast, the cannon, the dreadful black machines,
Striking, hitting, the walls do crumble,
The marching folks inscrutable,
Muscles full of alacrity.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Topic(s) of this poem: muscles,sorrow,war
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M.A. Wood

M.A. Wood

Nora Springs
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