Dead summer

Folding aspirations
of desiccated summer day
spell asleep.
Hear then, the parched dead,
the waterlogged unborn,
lurking in the grass.

The reason for not understanding
is brief and malicious.
Focus is a motive,
perception another word
for grasping logic
of matter in motion.

It is then I measure
the distance from here
to the origin, a time I know
as beats of the heart,
as attempts, a pursuit.




Poetry by Bob
Read 438 times
Written on 2011-06-30 at 23:21

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