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A no theme song

Ein Soph
Ein Soph 20 Sep 2011 Tag: Futility 6 comments, leave your own..

This bent and creased diary
What has become of me…
Tucked away in a broken
music box
filled with dried petals and tarnished 
bubblegum trinkets,
broken crayons and unpassed notes
all rattling around,
fragile bones of once-life,
remnants under loosed skin,
overflowing pages, spilling


out of overly worn covers…
like silvery lovers lazing through 
Saturday morning cartoons.

There is no theme song 
for the dead ballerina
inside this box of abandoned

no elided lyrics for this stage-less
life-once-lived in sheets off Broadway
guttered on written curtains
never to be raised again, nor read.

What of the child who
misguides the one-way street?
What a find, tip-toed
and frilled...


A Christmas day masquerade 
beaming on her gifted face
excitement billowing inside,
opening soul-wide,

to a ragged bow placed
on the dislocated eye
of a dismembered puppy.

Words: 138 / Updated: 21 Sep 2011 / © Copyright

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1 Recent Comments

Posted (6)
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After_hours 7 years, 7 months ago New Comment

spending time with the sentimentals,.. its such a deplorable act we put upon ourselves, .. always and always have i found such attraction with my differences of who.. and what i am,.. & of how i tick and why i feel such need to hole myself for another day, there is a comfort in shelving - yet it only makes daylight that more daunting,.. this has prompted me to post a diddy done some time back,.. well played sir, good piece.

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Stryder 7 years, 7 months ago New Comment

I loved the 'Saturday morning cartoons'; reminded me of my childhood and nothing was more important! I also like the 'carwreck' feel that Krysta alludes too, especially the grim ending here and the lonely path I think the innocent girl perhaps a symbol for innocence full stop has to take; it has those real passage of rites qualities but is left rather stark and empty; like the next morning after a Bonfire Night in the UK....just smoking embers of what once was; the kind of zeitgeist of quiet ghosts and the loudness of your thoughts; the birds crying in the distance...so many tangible things here Darrin, a quality poem and post mate :)

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carlosjackal 7 years, 8 months ago New Comment

That final stanza really turned things on a sixpence..Excellent work.

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Ein Soph 7 years, 8 months ago New Comment

exactly, Sainted One. Thrown back. :) Thank you.

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ness 7 years, 8 months ago New Comment

out of overly worn covers…
like silvery lovers lazing through
Saturday morning cartoons.

i really found that soothing in sound and assonance and alliterative residue and also in image and focus; the beauty of doing nothing but being, close.....

and then....
the end.
i nearly fell out of my chair..............talk about unexpected. and morbid fascination. my disillusionment turned to outright ill. i think mayhap you want that gut reaction, that horror of truth that cannot be false...
im not sure what to feel on this poem now.
i feel misled.
like the ballerina.
and i want to throw the poem back at you in disgust.
is that ok? hmmmmmmm. well.
indeed. i feel mad. and deceived.


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The Coloured Cello 7 years, 8 months ago New Comment

Broken in too many places, your song is always alive but tucked away in dark spaces....... is it perhaps what is not there, that starves us of hope than our 'fractures', is it not emptiness that makes us fold inside and speak through cracks and ruins, walled in, afraid to become open once again, more than pain?

The "spilling pages" is perhaps one of the best symbolism defining your word ways to the reader.......abundance in voice, and I know the ways I've drowned, where you lament ... But I see something that gives me breath, in the beam of colour you have surrounded yourself with, the bubblegum trinkets, crayons, the cartoons and ballerinas, the rays of Christmas, all of this is what pertains not just to bright memories but to a vision, a spirit that needs not sing but follow that colourful theme, follow music, locate, perform, reveal.....
You've left an innocent trail of shades and glows here, spilling aureate. I'll always open before your pages ~*{@ @}*~

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