Part six
The silent summer, stained by serendipity,sprawling beneath dry hedges
where dirt is unforgiving,
drinks ubiquity and absolute longing
to the echo of seabirds.
He vomits between two cars
on cold February snow.
Loneliness is a form of madness,
demanding haste in the land of:
All things must come to pass
as soon as possible.
The winding wills of spirit
fill the air with purpose and seaweed.
Silent herons fade in frosty windows,
bending beady pointed beaks
to the wispy illusion of water.
His voice is not mine
and yet he moves when I do.
Four winter days in New York
turns into late July.
I grope for answers
but it is to hot for wings
to beat against my forehead.
Darkness dares me, but I pass.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1166 times
Written on 2010-04-02 at 11:35
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