there are swinging doors
there are swinging doorsby the way freedom falls
this side of looking at it
daring is no option
risking the rest of your days
is a matter of coping
with what goes forward
no more no less
there were anchors
dragging the bottom of the sea
blinking buoys floating
ringing above the waves of here
there is always another day
another straw to hold on to
rivets holding old pale pubs
this side of memory
jeans bold and brash
sound like fools
bursting with images
surrounding us
at the very core of observance
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2017-06-24 at 00:49
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ken d williams |
Texts |
by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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