The reason why


The last blow is for the spirits,
the lasts drops of wine
reflecting
in your eye's final spree.

This is all an appeasement,
a shortcut to the muse,
words of wanton
at the closure of the day.

I am the You
if you let me to
hurrying the process
of being here.

I am also the final lid
of all with no purpose,
scurrying
to shades of forgetfulness.

I'd rather be tissue printed
than forged into oblivion.
I am the content
of all that I am.




Poetry by Bob
Read 529 times
Written on 2011-01-12 at 23:04

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