Good night

Wind my weary ways,
will my intentions to the sky,
to the tears of limit.

Grinding gravel, salt and lime,
I move like a broken shovel,
no grip, no direction.

The continuous call, hear!
Know no fear, no notion.
The rule of the ruler.

Thresholds, old,
fade with a loss of light.
This must be good night.




Poetry by Bob
Read 611 times
Written on 2011-05-24 at 19:36

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