Yet another day 6


Thereís a voice that canít 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,
thereís 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 573 times
Written on 2011-10-01 at 00:51

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Yet another day
by Bob