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Elliott Hazen


Chapel Hill, NC, US

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Elliott Hazen

Peeking over the horizon,
The sun waits to return,
To its home in the heavens,
And a new day is born.

At the end of her day,
She extinguishes light,
Fading out slowly,
The day turns to night.

But when you turn to see,
The sun set before thee,
Under the horizon,
She hides, but why so quick.

You wake up to look,
At the radiant sun,
She has not returned,
Yet the next day has come.

When he is there in bed,
Looking like a machine,
You want to say goodbye,
But he is gone for good.



Elliott Hazen

All the soldiers march,
Into their suicide,
With barrage of gunfire,
There's no place to hide.

Into the enemy's
Territory they come,
All fear becomes hidden,
All limbs become numb.

As the soldiers dodge death,
For a moment or two,
Perchance they shall live,
And become one of the few.

He receives his award,
With full pride on his face,
But he thinks of the killed,
And the horrible waste.

Casualties of War


Elliott Hazen

Fires roaring through the field,
Bombs clearing space for more,
Bodies leaking blood around,
Casualties of war.

Air raid sirens blaring,
German army firing,
Heat of A-Bombs searing,
Casualties of war.

Trenches dug into the ground,
Infantry surrendering,
Only sub-atomic sound,
Echoing, echoing, echoing the casualties of war.



Elliott Hazen

Can a Dream come true?
Can life be a Dream? My life?
When life is removed?

A Lone Oak


Elliott Hazen

A lone oak; regal on the hillís crest
Majestic; arms wide providing shelter and shade
Roots twisted and intertwined like a mother
Caressing the earth from which it was made.

A flow of life from soil to leafís tip written
Two initials where the trunk has turned brown
True love whose writing lasts on through the many years
A tree starts by growing but one day will fall down.

Four letters and a heart are the last remnants
Of true love gone bad by the poison of time
A solid emotion that the winds have cracked,
Broken forever but remains in memory; rhyme

Like initials on a tree which one day will fall,
Rotten on the inside crushed by lifeís storm
But sturdy in appearance because bark is not clear
Just like people arenít transparent; a state we all fear.

This tree slowly rots as time passes by
The life quietly leaves as the oak starts to die
No more emotions inhabit this tree
But two small initials carved by you and me.



Elliott Hazen

What good does a hope, as lofty as clouds,
Serve to my heart, like soaked, heavy shrouds,
Only serving as weight, on a feather light scale,
That begins the sole question of idealís place in lifeís tale.

To live is to anchor; to dream is to soar,
But how to scribe fantasy on lifeís toneless score,
A tree without canopy, a boat sailing sans sea,
Both images of reverie that subsist unto me.

The stars on my pillow, my desires impending,
The colors so vibrant, all senses are tending,
The most exquisite of environs that pierce through the sky,
But vanish when veracity, opens your eye.

Most idyllic to me is not scenery,
But love, care, and life long ecstasy.
In spirit is chaste and should be easy to feel,
But in my mind is ephemeral, I long for ideal.

Tis why we wish upon shooting star.
A siren in heaven, falling so far,
An ideal far above with limited worth,
Until descent to reality, here upon earth.