When you walk into the room
Tribal tremors vibrate through me
and at here where all is shifting,
where time is always late and see,
never true to life or its dense drifting.
The notion that shapes me and my to be
in silly woods with their sinister gloom
dies when you walk into the room.
Poetry by Bob
Read 847 times
Written on 2009-01-06 at 23:27




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