Narrative Poetry

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When the land was perceived as new, and owned by the British, With barely a road, the people still skittish. There was a land in Pennsylvania, now known as Bedford; Called for the surname of a Lord known as Edward.
I watch the old house all day and night; I keep my vigil, never leaving my sight.   The oak they call me; the oak I may be, But from birth I have stood here, with nothing unseen.  
This is the tale of man in his boat; So worn, so tattered, barely stayed afloat. Late in the evening, no luck on his side, He came into shore on the first riptide.  
In the dead of night, we boarded the boat to save our lives. I was woken in my sweat, as I was shaken by my wife. She grabbed our screaming daughters; I loaded a boat with supplies.
Dedicated to all victims of bullying, which include girls & boys of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds.  (That includes me too.)  "You can beat a bully without using your fists!"
I look out the window. The world flies past. Farms, cities, mansions, yurts. People going about their daily lives. I want to join, but I can’t. I’m stuck on the train.
Two years, three years, five years passed Now we're in this chapel Everything feels surreal It all feels like a dream   Two years, three years, five years passed
From between the tangled legs of the trees A thousand leagues buried in the oyster of the Earth Lay it's pearl, entombed in the roots of the ancient wood And one day it was alive.  
Undress Me! My lips are thick and full; although smaller than the alluring marshmallows that sit on Asabea’s and Ama’s faces.
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