Broken Fountain, Empty Station

The lovely, gentle gurgle of the words,
The background of my life for sixty
Years or more, cannot be heard above
The droning pain. The poetry, which
Always simply has been how my thoughts
Arrived, breaks down before its final stop,
To leave a lover nearly weeping, staring
Down the tracks, his pretty flowers wilting
In the sun. The gurgle's done, the thoughts
Are absent. From the body, broken thing,
A howl wells up to chide the lover. What he's
Doing has no point. He may as well go

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-12-30 at 19:46

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I love this. Let the fountain keep flowing, Larry. :)

Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
The fountain still flows, Larry. Your words are like a swan song.