Part fourteen
It is to the seamless child he turns,though caring no less for dark water
burning where a breath of salty air is all
a new beginning can ask for.
But it will not be.
Bramble thorn bruises is on call
and all is asked for, again and again,
in that dreadful running down.
Just before the evening, heavy with sea,
scatters sea birds cart wheeling
'fore the gates of hell,
he tumbles one more mad day.
St. Vincent saw your haste into the fear,
saw the let go of a child on fire,
the wake in rooms of no hope.
There was no gentle goodbye.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1118 times
Written on 2010-04-05 at 10:04
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