At the end of the day
Liquid nights never saw me stumbling over cobblers
in a November rain full of dreams and kites
soaring high above roofs and chimneys
pointing long fingers to a damp and dull sky.
I whish you could see me through,
as I once saw the coming of afterbirth
on my second coming behind bars,
never knowing the outcome
of all fierce visions of what could be.
Ragged ages come with years
of a see truth seeking mission,
never pondering upon petty coins,
nor on skies never before perceived.
In a world of many speakers
I am but one
in your pulsating reach.
The minaret singer has begun
his surging cries,
Birch is on the radio
and I find all pieces appealing...
There is at times
a peace inherit in the moment.
Indian emigrants that strayed
long before the middle ages
still sing and dance
while eras of confusion
and economic avenues of neither
grips like Neolithic hardware
all focus and energy
it takes just to perceive.
So let it be said that I
would not stop at the end of the day.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1211 times
Written on 2006-11-29 at 22:02
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