fast feet move across

fast feet move across
dance-floor-worlds timed
by a puppy-joy existence
roll dark thunder like wet timber
in days of wild key stone allowance
a hand-drum rattles reality chains
hands beating poor skin to oblivion
dancing where voice be rhythm

catatonic the dying on the wall
the metaphor is not lost
the question may or not land
in mired echoes of turning mud
in empty sockets of no more
of looking ahead exhaled
in echoes of grinning skulls
while I drums still move




Poetry by Bob
Read 653 times
Written on 2016-02-22 at 15:02

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