Suburbia falls with light

Traveling treadmills of frail futility
grinds all life into a dull sparkling dust,
fading pages in all over transit,
times no man will ever claim, nor wish for,
even in days of total squalor.

Being at home with plain attributes
of belonging and a blind eye
keeps the dark motion at bay.
It is a refuge, an elusive water hole
in a desert without meaning.




Poetry by Bob
Read 566 times
Written on 2009-08-08 at 19:15

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