A stab in the dark 3
3
Whirling within limited existence, aroused,
crawling across weathered city centers,
the old man foresees all he is not
and dares the rest to find its own peace
with what no longer is possible.
Itchy, incorrigible ways cringes
at the touch of the one word,
pointing at him. He is lost.
His defiant smile
breaks his intentions
into consideration.
The sky is sea-fading fish bone,
a struggle amongst clouds
for winds to interpret or change
with their pockets full of images,
grinning over dark, watery graves.
Tangled in a warm hide,
breathing softly beneath contortions,
the old man dares not to fall
into night's justified wrath,
he dares not to invoke origin
when darkness sieges all ending days.
Overlapping moments of a slow now
fall unexpectedly into his lap.
The old man's love is a merry icon,
a slow dissolve into soft cries
prying into the delving,
a muted call, fading into dawn.
His story is bony tail,
a symphonic patriot at play.
He disbands and displays dark glory.
It is time to mould
that which will not play
with crude clay.
Who will dare dark incitements,
flights no hidden man can heed?
The old man feeds no flare, no fight,
nor what bare needs can prey upon
in nights that bleed for more.
Thus he calls the pending year
by all fear night concludes in cries;
abandoned kites run with stars,
soar in a wondrous wake.
It is nothing more than a glimpse,
a voyage of no consequence,
that winds its way from here
to the potential said so
and all the way back again.
Drab stories of delusion fall short at dusk.
Frenzied voices from a sub zero continent
slide down dark moon matter
to meet what does not come.
Colliding carelessly with
salty wood-words of winter,
black crows, with feathery bets,
beat collectors to the meltdown.
Food is the final curtain call
before predator blinds
hang vicious ways
in chains and no peace.
Oxygen is more
than just a breath.
Tuition so much more
than just coercion.
Flying whishes at midnight calling
melt the hour of truth.
Cymbal nights
– coarse voices singing
in foreign languages
streaks of light permeating
the final hour –
fly over the earth with crows.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2011-08-12 at 20:56
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