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
Read 577 times
Written on 2011-05-11 at 21:54

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