Sara Dickson

Sara Dickson Poems

Second, blink and then it's gone,
Gone away, moving on,
Ticked by the needle slick and black
Thin and slender, bulk it lack,

The death-calm took ahold of me
Swift, without cacophony
A sweet proposition
Whispered in my ear, and

I am the chorale of the wistful songbird
Carried by the sirocco wind
Echoed amidst the mirthful gale
Should her soft voice gently bend.

The tiger, garbed lavishly
In sunset oranges and murky blacks
Is the nomad of the cacophonous forest
And with a burning fire in his golden eyes


Standing upon a dream carcass
I ponder
Who holds my identity
Since I am no longer me?

The tempest has a restless heart
And a turbulent soul
And never will her fury end
Until she has complete control.

I leant against the gnarled trunk
Of the tree of the grave
Whose brittle branches are the avaricious hands of eternity
Whose grim eyes mesmerize my own, and

Creation is a peculiar thing
For it gives to every spirit life
Only to usurp it later on
Crushing it under death's cruel palm.

The wolf, the twisted, wretched creature of shadows,
Sat in the center of the underworld,
Waiting for the next dying soul to come within his reach,
Controls the balance of life and death so cruel,

Descending rapidly down the slick tunnel,
The icy catacomb where souls lay at rest,
A pitch black chasm teeming with iniquity,
The rapacious fissure absent of warmth,

Gaping jaws fill'd silver ashes,
Teeth of ivory yet toothless gnashes,
Protruding fangs far from his lashes,
Shards of rock like steel blades stained.

The wind as soft as baby skin,
Calling out to swirling kin,
No answer, scream the wind with anger,
Beat against and wither earth,

Blaze, sun, blaze you fire streak,
Above horizon ashen sneak,
Specked with brilliant heat from molten core,
Ball of flames such orange pumpkin,

The Best Poem Of Sara Dickson


Second, blink and then it's gone,
Gone away, moving on,
Ticked by the needle slick and black
Thin and slender, bulk it lack,
Energy steady, never to yawn.

Minute, gears spin round one time,
Single file in crooked line,
Sixty seconds stroll on past,
While teeth grinding push on to last,
Strong bronze fingers sturdy yet fine.

Hour, class, come in right now,
Come in quickly, I'll show you how,
Hands they point round circle room,
Endlessly moving, never find doom,
So praise this object, before it bow.

Day, month, year, decade, centuries long,
'Tis always needed, 'tis never wrong,
Red red rust may eat at its springs,
But 'twill still be considered of wonderful things,
For if clockwork breaks, infinity's gone.

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