Way above


Flawed and misused, a dance
with forever more and the others,
with why and those with a stance,
throwing arguments to who bothers.

A mentality direct hit drive-through,
a dead end folding night into dawn,
a a fold in space. You can grow
mist when you sleep on the lawn.




Poetry by Bob
Read 480 times
Written on 2011-06-09 at 23:26

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