The marching
The Moors are marching again
Through the symmetrical architecture of the mind.
Tears of anxiety spill
To wet the feet of the passer by.
Oh! How the shadows dance
In the uncertainty of this hour.
Withdrawn alone to watch
As the flames meticulously devour.
Any sense of shape or form
That may have risen from the dust.
This is the time of the marching
When the marchers march too much.
© Rik - 15/10/2007
Poetry by Rik
Read 701 times
Written on 2007-10-16 at 04:34
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