Wild to the obnoxious bone


Wild to the obnoxious bone
I scribble my tell tale giving's
to all the hopes of here after
not expecting more
than this vicarious moment.

Stretched, mangled and ironed
by influx and brief disturbances
I plough this earth in my own fashion
grieving naught but the end
of all cantankerous coils.

Once there was a tin bone
clothed in rubbery flesh,
an astute student of the morning,
erasing all fear with presence
and a touch of love's flight.

Who now can contest
the windward days of my life,
continentally spread and gone
like ghosts of an extraordinary past
with no bearing on today's core.




Poetry by Bob
Read 792 times
Written on 2006-07-25 at 18:25

Tags Wild  Flesh  Presence 

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Bob
Thank you Ange1a!! But the word you refer to is core, not score, I think.
2006-07-25