so many rivers to hail

so many rivers to hail
days with bassoon and harp
paling in the afterbirth

ceremonies of bewilderment
tokens of ephemeral now in awe
I am not a winter forest

the dance of the freezing point
sings in a pond
shrouded in shadows

a centipede in my tree to fall
a voice of blue silence
it is the shifting dark

given to walks between the I
and the end of it all
beauty lives to the sound of sand

"the end game" she whispered
"there is more to do
in the arms of death"




Poetry by Bob
Read 509 times
Written on 2015-12-26 at 18:39

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