(My G, there were lots of typos from last night, must have been very tired or drunk :-)
What is the purpose?
No relative consideration or aftermath
where colour or creed makes a difference
intercedes with my radio tonight.
It's a classical question of purging
a seldom considered variety of hearing
that falls on my thin skinny roof tonight.
Voices of a thousand times before
fall like sharp barbed old wired rain
and sour wine that constantly turns vinegar
when acid minds corrode the message
I desperately need tonight to catch
all decomposed angels that crumble on my floor.
I am but a gesture of a coming demise
a fear that finally will amount to naught,
if all is fraught with the roll of the dice
and all you can count on is caught thrice
before still born dreams that stall the count
and the shaman's awareness disintegrates.
No one can claim a totality of awareness,
can claim that they are in charge of chaos
where slouch drives the mythical box car
all across the wind driven decadent continent
where Jack finally found his new drive
never looking for a hilly Jill jive.
Time is either corrosion or growth
or a constant reminder of the fleeting start
that slowly digs a deep dark rabbit hole
where all passion finally dissipates
into a foggy sleep of no more here
where frail human concepts are no more.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2006-10-14 at 02:30
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Bob |
Christian Lanciai |
BlueyedSoul |
Kathy Lockhart |
Saga |
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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