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Rated: E · Poetry · Contest Entry · #2189124
A dying man's reflections
I have heard the phrase, grapes of wrath
and I have wondered,
what business grapes have,
showing any wrath.

Grapes are just fruits to be eaten,
and the seeds spitted out,
to fall sometimes,
though not always,
on warm fertile soils,
To be watered and cajoled to rise up again.

The sun also rises,
even if the darkness of the night dims its brilliant rays,
it lasts for just,
twelve hours or so,
then it breaks through the darkness,
with its piercing rays to shine again ,
more brilliantly than before.

In this side of paradise,
my little world where I am King,
where no one chews and spits you out,
where the sun shines even at night,
I look at the faces that I so love.

With warm calloused hands,
I touch their cheeks,
I feel the wetness from their tears,
tears for the tomorrows I will never see,
as I lay dying on my wooden bed.

Writer's Cramp (Winner)
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