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Literature Text
They won’t stop hunting us, you said,
as we lay quietly, hiding in bed.
The seasons will turn again and again,
but they will chase us straight to the end.
As we lay quietly, hiding in bed,
the world outside may as well have been dead,
but life still flickered within and without,
and with it, as always, that bright spark of doubt.
The seasons will turn again and again,
but those wolves just won’t go back to the den.
And though we try to make our retreat,
It already feels more like defeat.
But they will chase us straight to the end;
This lifelong pursuit will not relent.
But on that night, we lay down our heads.
They won’t stop hunting us, you said.
as we lay quietly, hiding in bed.
The seasons will turn again and again,
but they will chase us straight to the end.
As we lay quietly, hiding in bed,
the world outside may as well have been dead,
but life still flickered within and without,
and with it, as always, that bright spark of doubt.
The seasons will turn again and again,
but those wolves just won’t go back to the den.
And though we try to make our retreat,
It already feels more like defeat.
But they will chase us straight to the end;
This lifelong pursuit will not relent.
But on that night, we lay down our heads.
They won’t stop hunting us, you said.
Literature
California
My father was San Francisco and my mother, the Pacific;
at five I was in love with nine-lane highways, the scent of
eucalyptus pressed between my fingers, yellow parchment
hills crumpled up under the eye of the sun. If I had a sunset
to myself I would curl up on a park bench like the hippies do,
and eavesdrop on the sea lions’ bedtime conversations.
Alcatraz never quite unbarred me and yet I have found
freedom in hills steep as my shoulders; I know that I am
beautiful even in the rain because I have kissed the smoke
of Berkeley and tasted her on my teeth. I was born to
dangle my legs over Golden Gate Bridge and of course,
of
Literature
Muse
i yell at the clouds between sunrise dreams
their whispy constellations forming unresolved patterns
that hide and wink with conspiracy
"the devil is in the details"
she said,
but her voice is more whisper than sound
and I wonder if she was ever really here
i climb into bed and close the sheets behind me
to lock away the day
hiding my fears behind the substance of sleep and repetition
"identity is not who you are"
she said,
"but what you do"
and her voice is more thought than whisper
and I wonder if she was ever more than me
Literature
The Guide
For a minute there I thought I
was at the wrong house. Then you tried
to fetch your toast with a fork, while
it was plugged in. Now the tile
floor is scuffed up and you're all fried.
Makes my job easy. Oh don't try
to plead or beg. This is your time
to follow me, no need to lie
for a minute
or an hour. Whichever kind
of bargain you have isn't my
problem. My job is to file
your soul for future trial.
Though, I guess, I'll let you cry
for a minute.
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Day 29 of DFC, and I think I'm gonna make it! This is a European form called the Retourne, and I had quite a time with it. Refrain forms are hard to write and harder to edit, so this was a real challenge. However, I hope that this works for the most part. The form was fun to write, but I would love to give it another go later on to really do it justice.
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Comments4
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Nice one!