Beneath the moon


Dire deeds that cringe at wood's dark end
slither and die at dim corners of leafy lips.
I hesitate to say, although I must,
this particular crossing is of no value
but nevertheless of true importance.
It is here one meets what is
with no cloaks of misrepresentation
spelling hazy ways to the sun.
Never before has time fraught you
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding all perception to fiscal skin,
akin for the touch of no other.

Scavenging scholars of no intent
bleed across the pillared temple,
there is no peace in purple words alone,
nor in the arrangement of sorts.
The blue element of understanding
holds more keys than clouds,
the state of origin is all birthed mortals need
to breathe in that union
where wild fouls learn to fly.
Stoic impudence is laudable
in nights of no further.

The night is close to snow or rain,
someone plays the piano.
Voices float like banks of clouds
with no further ado.
I do believe in the sound of words,
the spoken abc of impossible dreams,
in mad glimpses of belonging
flashing between my bedroom poles,
the taut woods of cerulean skin
with all moon faces below.

The wind is the air you shift
as your intentions move you
across highways and wasteland.
Slow is the objective care
following maps of old,
steep is the path of tilting wings,
intense the rare sound of time,
your fair share of bold leaps
into all broken lakes of sense.




Poetry by Bob
Read 681 times
Written on 2006-02-26 at 01:41

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Christian Ward
Reads like a painting, very visual and very deep.
2006-02-26