Parked

parked in a garden with bees
I dare to finalize the rocky torso
turning rain in late August
there is no relevant lament to go

pierced like a lobe or a lip at sea
rolled into bleak tomorrow
I cannot find any more to say
than translucent is my air

gargoyled and weathered
like a headstone on wire
I dream my options into night
no one will survive



Poetry by Bob
Read 579 times
Written on 2017-08-25 at 23:18

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Pretty dark, but I love each stanza.
Ashe
2017-08-26