Day after driven day he folds his futile fire,
all that lost middle sanity may scorn
in one given gesture’s call.
Midnight’s moon crossing is tender air
perpetuated by the transient ticking
of a burning boy’s retreating heart.
All is contained in his maker’s morning
where he stands by the wispy window,
cleansing the nebulous night of grief.
Teased by dark end’s tell tale perusal
he falls windward into the wimpy grass,
viridian woods fade into black horse night.
The bellowing roar of stirred weary water
breaks his seaweed summer’s wanton wake
discarding vacant shells and fish.
Never had a promise of forever
rolled morning into steeples and wine
with sea horse gods to plead with.
A boy so lost in views:
There never was more than a degree
of how close he is to you.
Poetry by Bob
Read 364 times
Written on 2006-07-03 at 23:18
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