Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Don Hunted Down at Dawn

He alters himself - over and over again.
Again I try, but falter - gasping in pain.
Pain it is, though a beckoning one.
One that a heart feels, clasping to none.
None to hold on and nothing to fight out -
Out! Hey, what's all the ranting about?
About, maybe - you, yourself and yours
'Yours truly's strewn all over the moors
Moors that I once longed for rides in
In the spirit of the lovely Amazon within
Within those grounds which knew no bounds
Bound am I, forever, by thirsty bloodhounds.


[Me looks at the 'pome' just constructed. Tries to find out what it means.Cannot get heads or tails out of it. Remembers the forthcoming exam and chuckles to herself. 'The hunting hound of midsemania' is at it once again!Well, knock me down with a cliched feather - but it juggles the words in quite an okayish manner.]

--27th January 2006


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