down the foothills of memory

down the foothills of memory
sprawled like a starfish
dying in the morning sun

I can but allow you
the satisfaction
of my beloved doubt

tenderness does not fly
in villages where bombs burst
with the light of a billions suns

I am not the benefactor of alarms
nor the two timed suicide driver
ringing for time to end

salutations are in order
when the seeing
is a dark blue sky




Poetry by Bob
Read 754 times
Written on 2016-03-08 at 00:02

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