The haste of days
The abrupt silence of sirens,
the echo of danger staggering
into halls of factual consideration,
both fall short at mercury midnight
where bright titans call for moderation.
Never before the whispered moon
ripped the core of serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before did it occur to me
that the haste of days is hereditary.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1184 times
Written on 2006-01-09 at 00:02
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liz munro |
