Part three
This is my summer,still and – breeze all dark – wrong
and like scolded scales
the old brain still entertains
in times of don't care...
I follow her to the estuary,
pure with salt and longing
for the unbound virgin
that leaves the land far behind.
Why can I not talk to you?
I keep falling into old days:
I too am dying, flying
as my flesh cries out for more
and the wrongs that lift my very soul
cannot find unconditional absolution
beneath hanging flower-pots,
yet damp with recent joy,
scorched by the early die not.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1111 times
Written on 2010-04-01 at 22:55
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