Sunday, December 12, 2010

End of the Week| Random Poem

Tragically Mine,

I write endlessly on

Till my fingers start to bend and ache,

But what I feel isn’t pain.

No, it’s that feeling of being on a passenger plane,

All alone,

Awhile loneliness entreats upon the fragile air.

Can you hear the roar of the engine?

I can’t seem to focus away.

What should I do now that my life flies so solely?

There seems to be no answer to such questions.

~Alex A. Arlington

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