Elisabeth
We always change / We are forever free
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

ROSES

I want to hold on

To your beauty

But I am drowning.

The self-doubt overwhelming

Can we pretend to not know

The history I come from

I want to share your

Time and photographs

But you're smiling

To another. And I think

That this is the way

In which this should have happened

I want to walk with you

Each step into the future

But we're growing old

Apart. I want to give you

A crown of roses

But you do not want

The thorns

And the garden is flowering

With all the flowers you discarded

Affectively, as the birds fly

And love spreads quietly

From this rejected heart

Lover, though you're heartless

It is my love that tells me

To wish you well. I hope

You may be in springtime

That you, who whisked away

The beauty of these flowers

May blossom too, as the roses

Growing blackly in the shadow

In this garden of our past

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
ROSES
I want to hold on
To your beauty
But I am drowning.
The self-doubt overwhelming
Can we pretend to not know
The history I come from

I want to share your
Time and photographs
But you're smiling
To another. And I think
That this is the way
In which this should have happened

I want to walk with you
Each step into the future
But we're growing old
Apart. I want to give you
A crown of roses
But you do not want
The thorns

And the garden is flowering
With all the flowers you discarded
Affectively, as the birds fly
And love spreads quietly
From this rejected heart
Lover, though you're heartless
It is my love that tells me
To wish you well. I hope
You may be in springtime
That you, who whisked away
The beauty of these flowers
May blossom too, as the roses
Growing blackly in the shadow
In this garden of our past
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Philosophy

ANATTA

I am no one

Though not nowhere

Yes. I am still only

One person of many

But though I'm small

My strength derives

From sheer invisibility

One day. I will be

No one, everywhere

The first thing on your

Subconcious mind

As you wake up, each morning

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Philosophy
ANATTA
I am no one
Though not nowhere
Yes. I am still only
One person of many
But though I'm small
My strength derives
From sheer invisibility

One day. I will be
No one, everywhere
The first thing on your
Subconcious mind
As you wake up, each morning
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth

THE OPRESSORS, AND WHO THEY ARE

And in another hundred years, people will ask each other: 'Did you know one of them?' The people we cast out, and called inferior and superfluous, because we thought we were better. The walls we built between us and them made us feel safe, surely. It allowed us to forget, for a while, before the eye of the world saw and accused us grantly of great injustice. But we had a million reasons, each unanimously understood by our peers without even being voiced; it was that kind of thing we agreed to agree on without questioning. Asking too many questions was that kind of thing that got you a one-way ticket to the side of them anyways, and you could be sure that they wouldn't be too welcoming after all we'd done to them, naturally. 

So we censure our words and keep our opinions our own, to safe ourselves and our families. And so we silently take part by being witness to something other, a cruelty that makes us wince during the day and scream when our sleep mingles with nightmares, and we do not interfere. We read our texts with barren voices when asked to, as actors voicing Judas's betrayal, rejecting the defenseless because we are too afraid to be rejected ourselves. In a way, we are oppressed by this trickery imposed on us, but this we too cannot acknowledge, because to do so would be to side with the enemy, and enemies are dealt with swiftly. We both know that they are never seen again.

A hundred years is a hundred too many. I want to ask you this question now: did you know one of them? The men and women we told to go away, because their cultures did not resemble ours closely enough, because their views were counter to our own, because we felt we could not relate to them? Did they really deserve that fate? Or is it, in fact, us, who deserve to be rejected by the world for having agreed silently to such a thing unspeakable without a word of protest?

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth
THE OPRESSORS, AND WHO THEY ARE
And in another hundred years, people will ask each other: 'Did you know one of them?' The people we cast out, and called inferior and superfluous, because we thought we were better. The walls we built between us and them made us feel safe, surely. It allowed us to forget, for a while, before the eye of the world saw and accused us grantly of great injustice. But we had a million reasons, each unanimously understood by our peers without even being voiced; it was that kind of thing we agreed to agree on without questioning. Asking too many questions was that kind of thing that got you a one-way ticket to the side of them anyways, and you could be sure that they wouldn't be too welcoming after all we'd done to them, naturally. 
So we censure our words and keep our opinions our own, to safe ourselves and our families. And so we silently take part by being witness to something other, a cruelty that makes us wince during the day and scream when our sleep mingles with nightmares, and we do not interfere. We read our texts with barren voices when asked to, as actors voicing Judas's betrayal, rejecting the defenseless because we are too afraid to be rejected ourselves. In a way, we are oppressed by this trickery imposed on us, but this we too cannot acknowledge, because to do so would be to side with the enemy, and enemies are dealt with swiftly. We both know that they are never seen again.
A hundred years is a hundred too many. I want to ask you this question now: did you know one of them? The men and women we told to go away, because their cultures did not resemble ours closely enough, because their views were counter to our own, because we felt we could not relate to them? Did they really deserve that fate? Or is it, in fact, us, who deserve to be rejected by the world for having agreed silently to such a thing unspeakable without a word of protest?
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

AIRDIVE, OR VOLUNTARY FALL INTO A PLACE OF POETRY

When the love of T.S. Eliot

Reminds me of the stillness

And the patterns in a music

That is heard as from afar

And I am haunted by these words he wrote

Dust on a bowl of rose leaves

That should not ever be disturbed

And it seems to me quite clearly now that

Eliot dear is a ghost of air

And my mind a haunted house

And we are inevitably bound together

When I am running, eyes closed

Over a glass bridge that stretches

The great precipice of nothingness

He speaks softly and I know it's true:

This is the death of air

And I find I cannot breathe

As I did before, and the atmosphere

Turns to liquid nitrogen

And in minutes I have turned

Into the dying surgeon

Caught in his lines of poetry

Suspended in mid-air

And my story unended

As long as I am falling

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
AIRDIVE, OR VOLUNTARY FALL INTO A PLACE OF POETRY
When the love of T.S. Eliot
Reminds me of the stillness
And the patterns in a music
That is heard as from afar
And I am haunted by these words he wrote
Dust on a bowl of rose leaves
That should not ever be disturbed
And it seems to me quite clearly now that
Eliot dear is a ghost of air
And my mind a haunted house
And we are inevitably bound together

When I am running, eyes closed
Over a glass bridge that stretches
The great precipice of nothingness
He speaks softly and I know it's true:
This is the death of air
And I find I cannot breathe
As I did before, and the atmosphere
Turns to liquid nitrogen
And in minutes I have turned
Into the dying surgeon
Caught in his lines of poetry
Suspended in mid-air
And my story unended
As long as I am falling
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness

ANGER MAN

In the end it all comes down to chemistry, of the uncertainty of what happens when you put two things together and see what emerges. The beauty of distillation. And what do I do with the anger and resentment? I take the beating of my heart, the sensation of low oxygen, the pins-and-needles on my cold skin. Then I hold it over a fire until it nearly burns me and I pour it over the page to paint a picture of you. Suit man, with your checkered shirt, and the smile you bought in a convenience store. Economist with a critical eye in finding other people's flaws and pointing them out neatly (and blaming others for any he may have himself). Talks a lot but says very little, to hide he has truthfully very little to say. Agrees with everything you say, leaching, and then appropriating what was honestly somebody else's opinion. You are a hollow man, built from my anger, a symbol of mindlessness, the corporeal form of the concept I have fought so long in myself. And the echoes of your voice in my mind will die out soon enough, as will the anger, for who can truly carry hatred for an unreal man?

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness
ANGER MAN
In the end it all comes down to chemistry, of the uncertainty of what happens when you put two things together and see what emerges. The beauty of distillation. And what do I do with the anger and resentment? I take the beating of my heart, the sensation of low oxygen, the pins-and-needles on my cold skin. Then I hold it over a fire until it nearly burns me and I pour it over the page to paint a picture of you. Suit man, with your checkered shirt, and the smile you bought in a convenience store. Economist with a critical eye in finding other people's flaws and pointing them out neatly (and blaming others for any he may have himself). Talks a lot but says very little, to hide he has truthfully very little to say. Agrees with everything you say, leaching, and then appropriating what was honestly somebody else's opinion. You are a hollow man, built from my anger, a symbol of mindlessness, the corporeal form of the concept I have fought so long in myself. And the echoes of your voice in my mind will die out soon enough, as will the anger, for who can truly carry hatred for an unreal man?
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

WISDOM OF FOOLS

An old man of the upper class

Resting in the upper circles

Society has granted him - a name tag

On his office door, written in gold letters

As is the color of his mind and soul

But it seems to him a pity

That a golden boy such as himself

Should lower his towering status

And talk to fools, talk to me

Hatred born of ignorance

With sweet words so contorted

I am portrayed as fool by you

And unworthy of your wisdom

Or the smartness of your words

But as you question my capability

I must say, if I have failed today

And not been quite as competent

And the job not done perfectly

So did you, sir, on the subjects of

Sympathy and humanity because

Only a fool shares his knowledge

Unwillingly

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
WISDOM OF FOOLS
An old man of the upper class
Resting in the upper circles
Society has granted him - a name tag
On his office door, written in gold letters
As is the color of his mind and soul
But it seems to him a pity
That a golden boy such as himself
Should lower his towering status
And talk to fools, talk to me

Hatred born of ignorance
With sweet words so contorted
I am portrayed as fool by you
And unworthy of your wisdom
Or the smartness of your words
But as you question my capability
I must say, if I have failed today
And not been quite as competent
And the job not done perfectly
So did you, sir, on the subjects of
Sympathy and humanity because
Only a fool shares his knowledge
Unwillingly
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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth

THROUGH THE EYES OF ANOMALY

'I knew it,' Jake sang, triumphantly, peering intently into his microscope. His two labmates were not impressed, as he always exclaimed stuff like that. There was this one time his jubilant shouts could be heard echoing all over the thirteenth floor, and when they all came rushing to see what the hell the big deal was, he had said: 'Oh, well, I isolated some of the prettiest little beasts from Joe's watch,' - pointing at the elegant bacteria under said microscope and dangling the expensive watch carelessly around. 

But Joe was actually having a bad day, which is why he looked up from his computer and snapped: 'Look, Jake, unless you've discovered little demigodesseses dancing the tango through your looking glass, could you please shut up?'

Which annoyed Jake immensely. People were telling him all the time to shut up, and for no apparent reason, too. 'Actually,' he said, 'no. If a man wants to talk aloud sometimes, on important occasions, he should be allowed to do so, if not for his own amusement, then at least for his mental health.' 

'Shut up, Jake,' Joe repeated. 'Or show me the dancing goddesses.' 

'You're just a blasphemous bastard,' Jake said, disgustedly. 'I bet you eat custard for breakfast each morning, with little sprinkles on top, like a three-year-old.' 

'What the hell has my breakfast got to do with it?' Joe wanted to know. He could feel a sudden surge of real anger coming up. The one thing he had endless respect for and never messed around with was his breakfast. With his thirty years of age, he had already managed to divorce three women (- it might have been the long nights he'd spent with his collection of erlenmeyers and what the wives had invariably called his 'chemistry set'-), but he'd never missed a loving encounter with his breakfast. And here Jake was, accusing him of a capital offence like that. 

'You know, what a man eats for breakfast says a lot about what kind of person he is,' Jake said, knowing exactly how much value Joe attached to the sacred first meal of the day. He just couldn't help himself. The truth was, that there hadn't been anything interesting under his microscope. Not for days. It drove him nearly crazy, the lack of discovery, as if he was watching the same old movie over and over ('A Day In The Life Of Jake W. Smith'). The only thing he got a vague feeling of triumph out of, was making sure that Joe never found out. 

But Joe suddenly didn't want to fight anymore. His bubble of anger surfaced, made him scowl a moment, and then took all his liveliness with him. He stared at the sky through the large windows at the other end of the lab, his face completely void of emotion, his shoulders hanging like dead birds. If Jake hadn't turned back to his microscope to check if he had perhaps missed a miracle, he would have seen Joe rise, suddenly, his mouth dropped open, his blank face now the canvas for a portret of a surprised man. As it turned out, between the two of them, Joe was the first to discover the Anomaly. He found himself drawn to the window, but his feet were weak from the shock and it took him forever to reach it. Then, staring at the wondrous thing that filled up the sky and finding himself unable to speak, he fumbled forever too for his phone. Two eternities thus having passed, he dialled the number of Jake, who snapped from his microscopy staring duties and answered the phone with a short: 'Yes?' 

But there was only breathing on the other side of the line.

'Damn it, Joe, what kind of filthy joke is this?' he said angrily. Then, getting up to see where Joe was calling him from, his eyes fixed on the thing that was, minutes later, dubbed the Anomaly, or the Anomalous Eye; and he ran towards the window, where Joe still stood wordlessly, gazing up like a little boy seeing a spaceshuttle take off.

Instantly the boredom-inspired argument was forgotten. Jake witnessed himself placing an arm around his trembling colleague; it all felt immensely strange, as if it weren't really his arm, and Joe wasn't real, either. Everything felt that way, suddenly, looking at this impossible eye that filled up the entirety of the sky with its brilliant blue iris and the gloomy darkness of the pupil that hovered and blocked the sun. It was an eclipse like none before and the city lay in a sudden darkness that neared night under that all-seeing gaze, and the air seemed to have cooled substantially since the eye made its majestic appearance.

'I see,' Jake said, at last, not because he wanted to, but because the silence was becoming too much to bear combined with the heaviness of the dark cloud that was spreading over the streets below. 'We have been discovered at last.'

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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth
THROUGH THE EYES OF ANOMALY
'I knew it,' Jake sang, triumphantly, peering intently into his microscope. His two labmates were not impressed, as he always exclaimed stuff like that. There was this one time his jubilant shouts could be heard echoing all over the thirteenth floor, and when they all came rushing to see what the hell the big deal was, he had said: 'Oh, well, I isolated some of the prettiest little beasts from Joe's watch,' - pointing at the elegant bacteria under said microscope and dangling the expensive watch carelessly around. 
But Joe was actually having a bad day, which is why he looked up from his computer and snapped: 'Look, Jake, unless you've discovered little demigodesseses dancing the tango through your looking glass, could you please shut up?'
Which annoyed Jake immensely. People were telling him all the time to shut up, and for no apparent reason, too. 'Actually,' he said, 'no. If a man wants to talk aloud sometimes, on important occasions, he should be allowed to do so, if not for his own amusement, then at least for his mental health.' 
'Shut up, Jake,' Joe repeated. 'Or show me the dancing goddesses.' 
'You're just a blasphemous bastard,' Jake said, disgustedly. 'I bet you eat custard for breakfast each morning, with little sprinkles on top, like a three-year-old.' 
'What the hell has my breakfast got to do with it?' Joe wanted to know. He could feel a sudden surge of real anger coming up. The one thing he had endless respect for and never messed around with was his breakfast. With his thirty years of age, he had already managed to divorce three women (- it might have been the long nights he'd spent with his collection of erlenmeyers and what the wives had invariably called his 'chemistry set'-), but he'd never missed a loving encounter with his breakfast. And here Jake was, accusing him of a capital offence like that. 
'You know, what a man eats for breakfast says a lot about what kind of person he is,' Jake said, knowing exactly how much value Joe attached to the sacred first meal of the day. He just couldn't help himself. The truth was, that there hadn't been anything interesting under his microscope. Not for days. It drove him nearly crazy, the lack of discovery, as if he was watching the same old movie over and over ('A Day In The Life Of Jake W. Smith'). The only thing he got a vague feeling of triumph out of, was making sure that Joe never found out. 
But Joe suddenly didn't want to fight anymore. His bubble of anger surfaced, made him scowl a moment, and then took all his liveliness with him. He stared at the sky through the large windows at the other end of the lab, his face completely void of emotion, his shoulders hanging like dead birds. If Jake hadn't turned back to his microscope to check if he had perhaps missed a miracle, he would have seen Joe rise, suddenly, his mouth dropped open, his blank face now the canvas for a portret of a surprised man. As it turned out, between the two of them, Joe was the first to discover the Anomaly. He found himself drawn to the window, but his feet were weak from the shock and it took him forever to reach it. Then, staring at the wondrous thing that filled up the sky and finding himself unable to speak, he fumbled forever too for his phone. Two eternities thus having passed, he dialled the number of Jake, who snapped from his microscopy staring duties and answered the phone with a short: 'Yes?' 
But there was only breathing on the other side of the line.
'Damn it, Joe, what kind of filthy joke is this?' he said angrily. Then, getting up to see where Joe was calling him from, his eyes fixed on the thing that was, minutes later, dubbed the Anomaly, or the Anomalous Eye; and he ran towards the window, where Joe still stood wordlessly, gazing up like a little boy seeing a spaceshuttle take off.
Instantly the boredom-inspired argument was forgotten. Jake witnessed himself placing an arm around his trembling colleague; it all felt immensely strange, as if it weren't really his arm, and Joe wasn't real, either. Everything felt that way, suddenly, looking at this impossible eye that filled up the entirety of the sky with its brilliant blue iris and the gloomy darkness of the pupil that hovered and blocked the sun. It was an eclipse like none before and the city lay in a sudden darkness that neared night under that all-seeing gaze, and the air seemed to have cooled substantially since the eye made its majestic appearance.
'I see,' Jake said, at last, not because he wanted to, but because the silence was becoming too much to bear combined with the heaviness of the dark cloud that was spreading over the streets below. 'We have been discovered at last.'
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Written by Elisabeth

DIAGNOSIS & DISEASE

Nobody told me the truth of this precipice

And that the wood on which you walk gets slippery

And that this fall will break you, and make the pieces

Of your conflicted soul in rancorous turmoil

So I fell down from the high of my naivety

And the ground broke me, but did not kill me

Instead I lay there, remembering something once spoken

Get up when beaten down, so that 

You may perhaps fall again.

And I collected the sharfs of a broken thing

Recognized to be my life contorted

Setting out for someone who could

Fix it, maybe

And I presented the ruined self

To the selfless guru, who I asked

Whether this still could be repaired

And she said: don't you know?

The only thing impossible

Is the thing we can't imagine

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Written by Elisabeth
DIAGNOSIS & DISEASE
Nobody told me the truth of this precipice
And that the wood on which you walk gets slippery
And that this fall will break you, and make the pieces
Of your conflicted soul in rancorous turmoil

So I fell down from the high of my naivety
And the ground broke me, but did not kill me
Instead I lay there, remembering something once spoken
Get up when beaten down, so that 
You may perhaps fall again.
And I collected the sharfs of a broken thing
Recognized to be my life contorted
Setting out for someone who could
Fix it, maybe

And I presented the ruined self
To the selfless guru, who I asked
Whether this still could be repaired
And she said: don't you know?
The only thing impossible
Is the thing we can't imagine
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

REQUIEM WITHOUT WORDS

Be quiet now, one moment

As the sincerity in the violin sonata

Says what I cannot say

Expressing what I cannot tell

A grief only understood by those who feel it

Or who ever did, because we cannot forget

Those things that become our shadows

Longing for the lost, and the love that is pointless

Why we may not meet again, outside of this daydream

And oblige when I am told to let you go

While all I want is to keep on holding your hand in mine

And know that there is no end to the laughter

And know that when the world's light dwindles

There is always your light to return to

And your love unconditional, a shelter 

When the bombs fall and the city bleeds

When the eclipse eats the light

I might fall for fear, but the despair

Can only be for the forsaken

But through the ethereal daydream

I hear the violin speak

And the longing in the suffering of the sonata

Mozart twenty one E minor

And I can only remember

You are lost forever, but the love stays

To haunt me in the reflection of other's eyes

But no more words, no more broken messages

As if I could tell you how I feel and not

End up in labyrinths of evasive affirmation

When I tell them I am okay with this

When I tell them that I let you go

And all I hear is the violin breaking

And with it all the things I wanted to be whole

So why do you want me to apologize

For the lack of words to explain this pain

Can't you see there are no words

But only music

Only time

And the music and the time

Is all we ever needed 

The only option that may cure

What no medicine may

Only music,

Only time

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
REQUIEM WITHOUT WORDS
Be quiet now, one moment
As the sincerity in the violin sonata
Says what I cannot say
Expressing what I cannot tell
A grief only understood by those who feel it
Or who ever did, because we cannot forget
Those things that become our shadows
Longing for the lost, and the love that is pointless
Why we may not meet again, outside of this daydream
And oblige when I am told to let you go
While all I want is to keep on holding your hand in mine
And know that there is no end to the laughter
And know that when the world's light dwindles
There is always your light to return to
And your love unconditional, a shelter 
When the bombs fall and the city bleeds
When the eclipse eats the light
I might fall for fear, but the despair
Can only be for the forsaken
But through the ethereal daydream
I hear the violin speak
And the longing in the suffering of the sonata
Mozart twenty one E minor
And I can only remember
You are lost forever, but the love stays
To haunt me in the reflection of other's eyes
But no more words, no more broken messages
As if I could tell you how I feel and not
End up in labyrinths of evasive affirmation
When I tell them I am okay with this
When I tell them that I let you go
And all I hear is the violin breaking
And with it all the things I wanted to be whole
So why do you want me to apologize
For the lack of words to explain this pain
Can't you see there are no words
But only music
Only time
And the music and the time
Is all we ever needed 
The only option that may cure
What no medicine may
Only music,
Only time
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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth

SUMMER'S APOTHEOSIS

You are incomparable

Surpassing the metaphor

But if I had to compare you to anything

It would be to summer, even though you are more

Truer in your brilliancy than any summer day I knew

You are warmer than sunshine when I need warmth

But cooler when I need calmness

And while the seasons change, your summer lasts.

Know you are remembered

In this poem that shall keep you

Safe from death, free from oblivion, forever

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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth
SUMMER'S APOTHEOSIS
You are incomparable
Surpassing the metaphor
But if I had to compare you to anything
It would be to summer, even though you are more
Truer in your brilliancy than any summer day I knew
You are warmer than sunshine when I need warmth
But cooler when I need calmness
And while the seasons change, your summer lasts.
Know you are remembered
In this poem that shall keep you
Safe from death, free from oblivion, forever
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