With some editing.
as I walked down old yesterday
with its smelly socks
and a forgetful indifference
that makes it so much easier
to abandon old bygone ways.
Now I am caught in an ominous assault
on the shoved aside past
that once carried weight
in what it was.
My nose is rubbed in memories
that once occurred, I think.
I am the remnant of a child,
full of anticipation of a life
that actually turned elsewhere,
a wisp, a spray, a thin mist
just before the sun spoke.
Thus I tell the eagle thorn tare
that meets the thin strands
of my grey, uncut hair:
Go easy on my fields of grey!
I am the soon not here kind of
that will but verbally sound
to the sand and clocks
of fulfillment falling.
Poetry by Bob
Read 577 times
Written on 2009-06-07 at 18:20
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A shaman stole my shoes
A shaman stole my shoesas I walked down old yesterday
with its smelly socks
and a forgetful indifference
that makes it so much easier
to abandon old bygone ways.
Now I am caught in an ominous assault
on the shoved aside past
that once carried weight
in what it was.
My nose is rubbed in memories
that once occurred, I think.
I am the remnant of a child,
full of anticipation of a life
that actually turned elsewhere,
a wisp, a spray, a thin mist
just before the sun spoke.
Thus I tell the eagle thorn tare
that meets the thin strands
of my grey, uncut hair:
Go easy on my fields of grey!
I am the soon not here kind of
that will but verbally sound
to the sand and clocks
of fulfillment falling.
Poetry by Bob
Read 577 times
Written on 2009-06-07 at 18:20
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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