So, what happened?


I remember the yearling years
of my first and only youth
when I and I walked in the sun
never dreaming of a past future
of growing up, nor yielding
to the arms of the crass octopus,
lurking in the money sea.

Now I melt my making days
to the sound of small children
and the longing of anchors
that match the coming tide.
I am the inherit struggle
between what must be said
and the wings of string less gulls.




Poetry by Bob
Read 532 times
Written on 2007-07-29 at 01:28

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