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Broken Things
The cat brought a bird in last night.
It wasn't dead yet, and skittered around
on mangled wings.
It scattered feathers,
left little rosettes of blood
all over the kitchen.
I tried to save it.
I don't know why.
Maybe I just have a weakness for broken things.
In the morning,
there were more feathers,
more red polka-dots,
and a dead bird in the middle of the floor.
Not all things can be saved.
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a very short and simple poem, and all the better for it. my favourate line is:
Maybe I just have a weaknesses for broken things
i think that is one of my weakness too, it made me think. |
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| I love the style of your writing, it has an earthiness to it that I love. I can't wait to read more! |
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Comment by: teejay - 2007-01-12 17:14
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Very nice! I loved the descriptions; I could see everything in my head.
It reminded me of a bird I tried to save...it died too...:'(
I was so upset...I love animals more than people... |
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| It's short, sweet, and simple. Very descriptive words for the plight of a dying bird, especially the "skittering around on mangled wings"...i don't hear skittering used often. Also, "rosettes of blood" left a very interesting mental image. I like this a lot. :) |
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| I like it, the poignance of this moment that so many of us have witnessed. the narrator says he tried to save it, but hasn't done anything. It flows well, I certainly share the feeling of helplessness as I witness nature take its brutal course, but here I am left feeling a little fooled, 'cos he didn't try very hard did he?! |
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