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The Tempest

by Roger Crique (Age: 56)
copyright 06-25-2005


Age Rating: 10 +

I am the wind that gathers in the mist of the sea.
I churn in the middle of the ocean.
I gather my strength from within,
the confines of his collected wisdom


I am the power of the cosmos.
At any given moment, I devastate without mercy.
The tears of the heavens I collect;
and douse your souls without regard.

For it has always been and it shall always be.
I move upon the face of the Earth;
cutting trails through tall grass.
I reap havoc in your psyche, demanding respect.

Fear me! For you do not understand!
My language is death!
My purpose is life!
For I am a mere figment of his breath.






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        09-09-2005     Regina Pate        

Yes, I believe it, I do, I do, tell me more please, give me more, but wait, I thought it's language is symbols, the immutable language? I don't understand the language of death, describe it to me and then I will know.

        06-27-2005     Jean George        

This is powerfully written, Roger, your style of writing is at its best, for me, in this one. I am in awe of your talent for raw, evocative description. You have combined the power of superstition and the mighty images of the old religions to again put any ideas of man's superiority to rest...I like evrything about this one.



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