Today


Hackney hearse healers whine ,
torrid voices groan.
This earth I am, scorched
and turned to money lenders,
belching, rotting and yet
a receiver of morning,
this earth is so much more
than I will ever be.

Torrid voices cry, fail.
Stuffed men insist on rules,
birds take what they can.
A shadow lost,
an utterance, a war mislaid,
the trampled is forgotten.

Pirouettes at midnight sky falling,
steps for the king or queen
recently chosen and revered;
all is moves constantly,
hierarchies inhale and die.

Stuffed men pretend, fail.
Birds take theft for granted.




Poetry by Bob
Read 578 times
Written on 2011-05-09 at 23:24

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