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Nightingale

March 13, 2017 4 Comments

Nightingale
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He was angry that there wasn’t enough poetry in the world. Everything he did had poetry flowing out of him. He got drunk with poetry and loved women with poetry. Everything had a pause and flamboyant gesture. Life was a tapestry of words. His eyesight was failing so his friend read him the poetry of Keats and Shelly while he sat there smiling. Even his death was poetic falling down the stairs. He was read Ode to a Nightingale as he lay in a coma. He thought he saw a poetic shudder at light’s end, but then, perhaps he was mistaken.

By Pollockseyeball

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Jay says

    March 13, 2017 at 3:40 pm

    Life was a tapestry of words…I enjoyed that.

    Reply
    • kenneth trimble says

      March 14, 2017 at 12:18 am

      thanks appreciate that

      Reply
  2. Gena says

    March 13, 2017 at 10:16 pm

    Well written!

    Reply
    • kenneth trimble says

      March 14, 2017 at 12:18 am

      thanks

      Reply

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