Home Writers Writing Groups Contests Link | Invite | Help  

Return


A Poem by Tzedeqiel

The man my brother never became

stands on a street corner. Rain blurs the lights.

He drifts like smoke along the cracked sidewalk,

murmuring a life, and pauses to look back.

No voice calls his name. The image flares,

denying everything but now.


© 2009 Tzedeqiel
Share Writer Stats
MySpace Bulletin
Share on MySpace
Facebook
Friendster
Orkut
Hi5
Wordsy
 Add to Library
Bookmark Poem
Email to Friends
Link
[more]


Advertise Here
Want to advertise here? Get started for as little as $5





Author's Note
-5 to any of you who thought I actually have a dead brother.
My Review
Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register

Featured Review

Ah, but there are all sorts of deaths, aren't there? The failure to live up to the dreams of others and ourselves, or the failure to embrace risk or possibility (cf. "murmuring a life")--and how often has someone who is either dissipated or persona non grata for whatever reason been referred to in literature as a "ghost". Ghosts and/or the unsubstantial are all over this piece-- not only in the "murmuring", but in the reference to smoke and "an image"--things tangible, in a sense, but decidedly less than concrete. Needless to say, you have packed a whole lot of good into a very small space.

Posted 2 Months Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.





Loading..