Part twelve

I died a thousand deaths that night
with no further ado.
As darkness flew with disregard
I too slowed down,
sinking into summery shadows
where all names expire.

I am the brilliance of froth
shimmering with the moon.
I am the voice of all calls
that fall with the surf
breaking all conceptions
into insignificant grains of sand.

I am no more.




Poetry by Bob
Read 1160 times
Written on 2010-04-03 at 17:08

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