A stab in the dark 4



4

The old man
finds himself at war,
between righteous howls
and dry bones.

The power of money
makes for long term claims.
Hypochondriac men,
claim dominance by default.

Glossy shadows of power
feed on illusion,
focus is a self imported
aspect of visibility.

Daring is a glorious move
that does not need blood
nor religious fervor
to defy the order of deeds.

The old man
sees flaws at the fundament,
all for a keep safe
and its winding complications.

A tumbling today – a changed direction
at the melting-point –
where he, as it were, hoped to canalize
all potential of a lame and toothless future
into pools of consideration.

He is wild intention
bleeding into a weary night,
too bold to be daft or even stale,
too rapt to pale or fold.
He is shift change from cruel tears
into Good night.

The sound of sirens echoes,
– danger in the halls
of fractal consideration –
falls short at mercury midnight
as bright titans call for moderation.

Never before did the whispered moon
rip at the core of mortal serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before did it occur to him
that the haste of days is hereditary.

The waning moon has spent
all its expensive emissions
on cellular mass calls for dawn.
Bright nimbus of winter distortion
warps distance in glass,
transparent drops softly freeze
in subtle oblivion.

At the dull hour of leaving,
when the light of days
imbues all he can see,
when being breaks into longing
and matter makes a million goodbyes,
each a sweet bead in a lost rosary,
it is then defeat is bearable.

Parting is a thousand suns
bursting into flame
in a single piece of dry wood;
conceding is to swell in that light
with each breath of air.
Cause has no other origin.




Poetry by Bob
Read 1134 times
Written on 2011-08-29 at 22:38

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