The why
The why haunts my days,
runs like mad froth
across my bared teeth.
The why is a feral animal,
ominous with hindsight
and a sense of wild marvel
– just before doubt
speared all possible footfalls
in the possible –
The why is I.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2011-03-02 at 19:30
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John Ashleigh |
Texts |
by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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