Yet another day 5
5
No consideration or aftermath,
in color or creed, makes a difference,
can interced with the radio tonight.
... It's a question of purging,
a seldom considered variety of hearing,
that falls on skinny roofs tonight.
Voices of a thousand lives
fall like sharp barbed-wired trains
and wine constantly turns into vinegar,
into a corroding of the message
desperation really needs tonight,
the decomposed crumbles on the floor.
A gentle gesture of a coming demise,
a fear that will amount,
a roll of the dice,
a count caught thrice
before the still born dreams
and the shaman disintegrates.
No one can claim a total here,
nor a charge of chaos
with slugs riding box cars
all across a final continent
with Jack and the gang.
Time is a corrosion and a growth,
a constant reminder of the fleeting
that slowly digs holes
where passion can dissipate
into a no more here,
no frail concepts are valid.
Any man looking at a star
is ancient,
all intentions
are.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1217 times
Written on 2011-09-28 at 07:26
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Rob Graber |
