This viral world

This viral world that whirls to an end
in the arms of trash and garbage men,
bloats like fat, dead pigs in your pen,
washed up on the dirt again and again.

No roaring resurrection combs the beach
with winds and seagulls diving deep;
no spring blushing light is within reach;
no trees will follow you when you leap.

I pity the fly that flies in vain
picking up speed like an old steam train,
I pity the glass that stands in between
what's been happening and what's been seen.




Poetry by Bob
Read 788 times
Written on 2007-04-02 at 19:07

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Pamela A Lamppa
Oh my. This almost hurt to read, yet is too close to being real to disregard. A strong and somber work. I enjoyed this piece immensely. ~Pamela
2007-04-03