The haste of days


The abrupt silence of sirens,
the echo of danger staggering
into halls of factual consideration,
both fall short at mercury midnight
where bright titans call for moderation.

Never before the whispered moon
ripped the core of serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before did it occur to me
that the haste of days is hereditary.




Poetry by Bob
Read 1308 times
Written on 2006-01-09 at 00:02

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liz munro The PoetBay support member heart!
You can weave such thought-provoking words and images with everyday life extremely well.
5/5
Liz.
2006-01-09