Greetings friends, I the Stranger have long been absent. Yes, you are aware of this fact. I'm sure that the excuse of, "Oh, I just happened to be doing so well in school because of extra hours put into it that I am in the 3.8-4.0 range for the semester" wouldn't satisfy your wrath. At any rate, have a poem. I'll be putting here some works I did for school but I also think are safe for the internet (because they've already been graded). If any think that you could use them for your own assignment, think again. Be warned, copyright law DOES in fact protect my creative content automatically (for 75 years btw). At any rate, enjoy the poem and I'll actually give you all an update on life soon. It's about the day I heard Christopher died. This poem is a sestina, if you have questions about the form just read the wikipedia article about it, that's what I did. :)
A Hanger or a Rose
Times pass as I went to his house,
Never could heat cancel the lasting chill
My best friend grew up there. Silence of heart
Tied by the years we spent playing with ropes,
I remembered our fleet feet and his arm.
My family still tended that white rose.
A tree had died where grew vine of rose
Feral fungus next to that red brick house.
The dogwood was touched by Yew’s arm
Giving leaves to ready reverse chill
With flames. Mom made the lattice-rope
Which let the new flower grow head and heart.
His wooden stairs and white home made my heart
Settle from happy memories of rose;
And so I snuck past the caution ropes
Into his room to see if in the house
There was a hanger in the empty chill,
But nothing is kept by a broken arm.
Five times cursed body but healthy arm
Until came the thrill of attack on the heart.
Frozen now because of a killing chill.
The medics came and then from death he rose,
For then he was brought to healing house
His body alive but brain cut rope.
A naked iron hanger is like rope
Its broken neck and triangle bent arm
Can easily be found in every house
And while they hang there without hint of heart
All wait in icy deeps alone, no rose.
The bars for hangers freeze with hating chill.
And I realize in the closet chilled
That I don’t know if he’s tied up in rope
Or if he plucked some tonic rose.
I can’t say if God healed the cold arm
But I know he’s been pulled to both in heart.
Can I be glad not knowing to which house
He was carried to; chilled in my own arm?
Though I doubt hanging rope, know I my heart?
Do I still trust the Rose and His high house?
Dt
