A rewrite


Solitude


Sorted by watery deities in dark pond preludes,
always with a watery wind and a hot railroad
at standby for a gentle kiss or whims meandering,
the spidery dog man finds himself engulfed in pain
and series of suns that refuse to shine on command.

Ceremonies of back bone breaking bowing
leads no longer to any bearable success,
voicing stoic ancient themes gives no peace
to this carcass that ache with yesterdays future,
all because of a brush fire turning ember beds.

White chapels is the final curse all must face
in the midst of a split second climb,
white is a hampering halo with horns and all
that beckons with stables, fever and crows
and slow magma at the feet of time's reign.
There is no escape from the residue of solitude.




Poetry by Bob
Read 489 times
Written on 2009-03-15 at 21:03

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