Message Bookmarked
Bookmark Removed
Well... what is it?
---------------------
Poll Results
| Option | Votes |
| It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart | 1 |
| It's the end of the road, | 1 |
| A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light, | 1 |
| A pass in the mountains, | 1 |
| and a cut in your toe | 1 |
| a stick, | 0 |
| A snake, | 0 |
| It's the joy in your heart | 0 |
| It's the promise of life | 0 |
| It is John, | 0 |
| it is Joe, | 0 |
| It's a thorn in your hand | 0 |
| A point, | 0 |
| a grain, | 0 |
| A bee, | 0 |
| a bite, | 0 |
| And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, | 0 |
| The promise of spring | 0 |
| It's a cold, | 0 |
| it's the mumps | 0 |
| The plan of the house, | 0 |
| The body in bed, | 0 |
| And the car that got stuck, | 0 |
| It's the mud, | 0 |
| it's the mud | 0 |
| Afloat, | 0 |
| adrift, | 0 |
| A flight, | 0 |
| a wing, | 0 |
| A hawk, | 0 |
| a quail, | 0 |
| it's a rhyme, | 0 |
| a buzzard, | 0 |
| The end of the road, | 0 |
| The rest of a stump, | 0 |
| A lonesome road | 0 |
| A sliver of glass, | 0 |
| A life, | 0 |
| the sun, | 0 |
| A knife, | 0 |
| a death, | 0 |
| The end of the run | 0 |
| And the riverbank talks | 0 |
| of the waters of March, | 0 |
| It's the end of all strain, | 0 |
| a stone, | 0 |
| A stick, | 0 |
| A blink, | 0 |
| A sudden stroke of night | 0 |
| A pin, | 0 |
| a needle, | 0 |
| A sting, | 0 |
| a pain, | 0 |
| A snail, | 0 |
| a riddle, | 0 |
| A wasp, | 0 |
| a stain | 0 |
| A horse and a mule, | 0 |
| In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue | 0 |
| And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, | 0 |
| It's the joy in your heart. | 0 |
| A stick, | 0 |
| A cliff, | 0 |
| a fall, | 0 |
| A scratch, | 0 |
| a lump, | 0 |
| It is nothing at all | 0 |
| It's the wind blowing free, | 0 |
| It's the end of the slope, | 0 |
| It's a beam, | 0 |
| it's a void, | 0 |
| It's a hunch, | 0 |
| it's a hope | 0 |
| And the river bank talks of the waters of March, | 0 |
| The wood of the wind, | 0 |
| The song of a thrush | 0 |
| A knot in the wood, | 0 |
| a stone, | 0 |
| It's the rest of a stump, | 0 |
| It's a little alone | 0 |
| It's a sliver of glass, | 0 |
| It is life, | 0 |
| it's the sun, | 0 |
| It is night, | 0 |
| it is death, | 0 |
| It's a trap, | 0 |
| it's a gun | 0 |
| The oak when it blooms, | 0 |
| A fox in the brush, | 0 |
| It's the end of the strain, | 0 |
| It's the joy in your heart | 0 |
| The foot, | 0 |
| A spear, | 0 |
| a spike, | 0 |
| A point, | 0 |
| a nail, | 0 |
| A drip, | 0 |
| a drop, | 0 |
| The end of the tale | 0 |
| The shot of a gun in the dead of the night | 0 |
| A mile, | 0 |
| a must, | 0 |
| A thrust, | 0 |
| a bump, | 0 |
| it's a find | 0 |
| It's a loss, | 0 |
| The dismay in the face, | 0 |
| the ground, | 0 |
| The flesh and the bone, | 0 |
| The beat of the road, | 0 |
| A slingshot's stone | 0 |
| A fish, | 0 |
| a flash, | 0 |
| A silvery glow, | 0 |
| A fight, | 0 |
| a bet, | 0 |
| The range of a bow | 0 |
| The bed of the well, | 0 |
| The end of the line, | 0 |
| It's a girl, | 0 |
― elmo argonaut, Friday, 19 October 2007 20:15 (eighteen years ago)
You must be logged in to post. Please either login here, or if you are not registered, you may register here.