Part thirteen

A slow mourning decays with night,
the fall of fervid wishes
is all in the way the sand crumbles
and terminal aspiration
can reach in one imploding heartbeat.

Your garland smile like the moon
finds me skipping in the dark
with damp death going down
for yet another lost light,
dim at the touch of summer.




Poetry by Bob
Read 1166 times
Written on 2010-04-05 at 10:03

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