Part five
Ceremonious serfs of the tediouscall for a spectacular end,
I, on the other hand,
still wait for the miracle
to set the circling hedges on fire,
to ring the proud heron's bell
in a salty Gaelic wind.
I am the voice that dared the water
to stay in between,
I am a voice in the grip of decay,
I am still going with the grey,
but I do not pray
for interludes of false Edens.
I will not weigh the wishful
on fatal scales, nor cry out for love
when night breaks a bleary coast.
Fatal is more serious than condition.
I am the seaweed washed ashore.
I am the dead jellyfish,
rotting on the beach.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1155 times
Written on 2010-04-02 at 11:34
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