The night


Wrought by the tenuous tales of the wired,
by the starry bones of all wishful tomorrows
I steal stale echoes to enforce my distance
and motion to the ever coming end of days
with trials and juries of all circumstantial creed.

Significant to the other walking down the aisle
I see no promise or vow that halts the day
nor serve as water beds with lilies in the night
where silence holds you to the beginning,
nothing more, nothing less.




Poetry by Bob
Read 565 times
Written on 2006-09-04 at 09:21

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