insipid is the city of the dead

insipid is the city of the dead
that ruminates beneath a grass
we all trod flanked by stones
on gravel raked by order

living is an foolish arrow
pointing in that direction
the wind is constant its history
the sea forever a dead bank

birds burn in Mojave Desert
man is a cruel mistress
protecting his game
from mortality




Poetry by Bob
Read 606 times
Written on 2014-06-15 at 22:31

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I have recently visited my parent's grave and realized the folly of it all. I definitely want to be cremated and ashes dumped in the ocean, or left out for the birds to feed upon. As always, your choice of words and contents of your poem is impeccable. Well done.
2014-06-15