Hostage


Late night feeding fades
into a wishful memory
of something that did take place,
just not here, tonight,
nor any other previous night,
but I know I was there,
hook, line and sinker,
not hearing the soft murmur
of sand falling in narrow glass
until years much later.

By then I had already developed
a fear of living, a fear of dying,
a fear of the tiny clock creatures
that slowly consume me.

I was stressed for time,
I was cold, it was winter.
The abandoned building
carried no winds,
only a breath of oblivion
at the point of a needle.
I opened my plasma doors
and tiny armies
devoid of consciousness
as we know it
took me for hostage.
I know.




Poetry by Bob
Read 689 times
Written on 2009-02-22 at 19:56

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Brian Oarr
Wow! Okay I am rapidly becoming a Bob fan. I absolutely loved the chosen metaphors in this piece, like "plasma door". Kudos and applause!
2009-02-22