Ok, so I wrote most of this poem in bed one night. However, I never could think of a good end for it. Finally, though, I did. Now, however, I am so close to the poem that I see it as perfect, even though I KNOW it isn't. Please criticise it. BTW, I know that I use "fingers" a lot in this poem. This is meant to be. Same with the 4-line rhyme in each stanza.
Dawn
Dawn's rosy fingers,
They cradle the night.
When their heat lingers,
They bring forth the light.
Hopping and skipping, she brings joy to men,
painting the colours in forest and glen.
Her lovely fingers,
They paint such a sight,
Give song to the singers
And make the sun bright.
Steadily, slowly, she makes the sun rise,
'Til he, and not her, is lord of the skies.
Dawn's warlike fingers,
They join in the fight.
Blood mixed by minglers,
The olde stories write
Bitterly, bitterly, wars for her place.
Sadly, she loses, the sunset her face.
Dawn's icy fingers,
Now rigid with fright.
Colourful bringers
Have no place at night.
Darkness of evening envelopes us all.
Now Dawn lies beneath her funeral pall.
Dawn's caring fingers
Are wholly alright.
Cold only lingers
For Dark's reign, finite.
In dead of night, she takes up her pen
And with her sweet fingers writes beauty again.
Last edited by Marshmallow Sky on Sun Jan 23, 2005 4:10 am, edited 2 times in total.
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