Every night, outside the iron-grated window, a giraffe looks at him with its deep-set eyes. Under the moonlight in a pool of tears, this pair of eyes pounds the reef of his sins mercifully, gently wash his guilt away. The look from this only visitor, releases him from the shadow of loneliness.
After being released from prison, he is finally free. Every night, he gazes out the low glass window, waiting for his visitor. He waits and waits, but still doesn’t see its silhouette. His neck grows longer as the days go by. One day, his head actually breaks through the roof!
Then he realizes that the giraffe's neck, in the wake of his rehabilitation, has grown shorter.
His Visitor
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Hi Noell, welcome to PG.
Intriguing.
Struggled a bit with this line:
Best wishes,
Seth
Intriguing.
Struggled a bit with this line:
I suppose it is because of this...if the sins are "pounded" how are they.. or at least how is his guilt-...washed away "gently"? I am thinking of washing clothes in the old way..pound them with something heavy in water. But perhaps I am thinking of this in the wrong way.this pair of eyes pounds his sins mercifully, gently wash his guilt away.
Best wishes,
Seth
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
Think you've outlined a potentially great short story here... sort of Kafka does Life of Pi meets Dorian Gray...
Giraffes have such marvellous, compassionate eys
By itself though it's just too brief.
Could potentially also be a poem?
Giraffes have such marvellous, compassionate eys
By itself though it's just too brief.
Could potentially also be a poem?
fine words butter no parsnips
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Hi Noell,
We're happy to treat it as a prose poem, but you need to post it in the poetry section for that! If you put it here people will consider it as a story rather than poetry.
Ros
We're happy to treat it as a prose poem, but you need to post it in the poetry section for that! If you put it here people will consider it as a story rather than poetry.
Ros
Rosencrantz: What are you playing at? Guildenstern: Words. Words. They're all we have to go on.
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