Night
With eyes of coal, bones of fever,
I watch your slow demise.
Tendencies of slow recovery
crawls in reflex,
trains of hollow cars
run through wet grass.
It is the night of all nights,
the moment all continuously is.
Life, a revolving door,
makes do with the present.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2011-05-11 at 21:54
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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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