Inflicted day withdraws with night


Local tribes of rain and bitter fall
call the praised bronze by its true name,
roll their sampled seasonal wounds
in every muddled October reflection.

Streets and plain pavements fold,
steeps echoing steps in city mire,
calls for all granted chains to break
and let the first unborn infant go.

Too many silvery promises
have died churning life's tell tale
into falling seas of disbanded lies
struggling with arms of innocence.




Poetry by Bob
Read 571 times
Written on 2006-10-26 at 12:54

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Saga
This is a great piece here Bob, I love this wonderful description of the rain!!!
2006-10-27


Zoya Zaidi
Most poignant poem with William Blakish touch to it!

((((Hugs Bob for that masterpiece))))
Love, Zoya
2006-10-26