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Wednesday, October 08, 2008


The night was bright; alarum, loud as bugle’s call.
I waited for another soul to wake up first,
for fear entreated me until it almost burst.
My feeble mask of calm destroyed by noisy brawl,
my curiosity surmounted me, too tall
for crude containment. Fearing all the very worst,
the courage in my heart enticed me as it nursed;
my person, so possessed, then clambered to the hall.

The night, aflame with lamplights, hid the criminal,
while naked weakness left me unprotected, null.

Upbraiding every door, inspecting carefully,
each room held nothing but our anxious oxygen.
Now beckoned to our beds by found security,
our feet let to the stair, descending not again.

Click here for the story behind this sonnet.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

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