Yet another day 6
6
There's a voice that can't be hushed,
eyes that thrash, fools that grin,
a wilted belly, dancing.
There is a forest that logs slow rush,
veins that creep like vines,
murky manuscripts that leave no trail.
The splash of viridian is forgotten
beneath a cheeky blush,
there's no pain, no tell.
Amphibious nightfall,
control that might be honed
for visible reasons, full of rain.
It is but thoughts of cotton,
a glance at the final turn
where man will fall.
The I is like a slender fish
in deep Prussian,
a color, no more.
No shoal of merry tuna
in the dark water tonight,
no green gardens
smiling at the bait.
Subtle wings return
with yellow beaks, with leaks
in the unzipped sky
in a motion of good bye.
Do not envelope your dying days
in a calm that copes with fear,
nor with a walk into water
hoping for a final element.
The wind that rakes the sand
rejects refuse late at night.
It would be bizarre to use the stare
of a water bird that falls.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1219 times
Written on 2011-10-01 at 00:51
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