At midnight

Back to petty pilfering
at midnight's crossing,
with tools of vast obliteration
and a silly dance just before sleep,
I sneer and spit into the fire
I have just lit.

True intention flitters like moths,
words are cheap
and in the land I have just rekindled
I seek the one sound that can haunt
and get my juices aligned like planets
in an auspicious moment.




Poetry by Bob
Read 472 times
Written on 2010-12-30 at 15:16

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