The woods
It is to the silent woods I go
in sleepless night.
all that wont flow
I cannot fight.
The throbbing clone
in the empty citadel
denies weathered bone
its burning bell.
Flushed by no return
children meet the night
with no regrets to burn
on the altar burning bright.
It is to the silent woods I go
in my sleepless night,
through all that flow
like music I cannot fight.
Poetry by Bob
Read 724 times
Written on 2011-05-27 at 20:57
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