To the wind
I dare all winds that crawl like stricken birdsover grassy hills in gloomy desperation
that bellows in the late hours of the night
with hideous sighs of see-through glass:
Leave me here to time's devices
to the sound of seashells and more
let gentle perish be my hollow mass
and sand be all my broken feet shall know.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2005-11-13 at 01:06
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