Lonely hour


Once again lonely hour lurks
between runaway clocks of dinky dying
and grisly voices with echoing spades.

Who can find whispering ways of water
walking to the fall of man,
failing the moon in the water?

I'm lost, I'm alone,
I'm random, I'm a bone.

Tie these watery waves that roll
before seagulls and shells
whispering in all twilight,
trembling with all this time.

I am lost.





Poetry by Bob
Read 479 times
Written on 2011-05-30 at 18:43

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