Time
Time is old men's fear of waves
late at night when pianos
keep their keys in certain colors
and all a free fall sailor whish for
is one last night of solemn sin
and a liquid resurrection of the child
that once rolled down soft hills
with open innocence and capsular winds.
Time is an erased line in books
no longer read in screen lit rooms
where ghosts of symbolic tokens
wander in search of creed and pride
never looking for marble boys
rolling their expectations
down those fading yester streets
of pure desire and fresh air.
Poetry by Bob
Read 551 times
Written on 2006-11-17 at 02:14
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 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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