The troubadour sings of dying love.

The troubadour sings of dying love.

A Poem by andrew mitchell

There were no flowers
but there was the
drowning pool.
She loves me
she loves me not,
she loves me,
she ....
sorry it’s not
this one, she’s drowned.
Okay! Here’s another one!
She loves me,
she....
nope not this one....

© 2021 andrew mitchell


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I realize you're a simple, straightforward writer, so bear with me while I try to describe what went thru my head as I read your poem. Instead of going from one meaningless nondescript pond to the next, trying to find the particular meaning your poem seeks, I saw the USA stuck in it's rash of daily deadly shootings & how we're afraid to refer to shootings specifically anymore becuz there are so many over the years, we can't remember distinguishing features. The parallel would be that your narrator is going thru ponds like we go thru bullets (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

Posted 2 Weeks Ago


andrew mitchell

1 Week Ago

I try to do clever simple. Thanks for your views. I suppose my thoughts are work related along the l.. read more
Hello, Andrew! :)
You're really using up the ladies here. Haha
This was a fun read.

Posted 3 Weeks Ago


andrew mitchell

1 Week Ago

Just my wicked humour for the day, thanks for stopping by.

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54 Views
2 Reviews
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Added on April 18, 2021
Last Updated on April 18, 2021

Author

andrew mitchell
andrew mitchell

adelaide, Australia



About
Strindberg said. " When I come home and sit at my writing table, then I live.... I live, and I live in manifold fashion of all human beings. I depict; I am glad with the glad, wicked with the wicked,.. more..

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