grave men dig for solemnity

grave men dig for solemnity
parades with the dead
in landscapes where darkness
is one more cup of oil

trumpets of selfish decay
blow a kind of hollow death
sirens of the inevitable
drive spikes of ice into the eye

the line is getting thinner
madness is common
on all levels of social order
it is indeed a weary tail wagging

we are all so brittle in time's play
the slow tear of its coming
dying dying
is yet a song of love

you eat your colored breakfast
on a gurney stuck in here
you love your children
and fight for the slightest concern

invisible pages run straight through you
passion is a flickering beacon
a buoy on the unsuspected coming
a final break upon sand




Poetry by Bob
Read 703 times
Written on 2014-09-20 at 16:29

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Not very optimistic, but I have felt the feeling. A powerful statement, and sadly a true one.
2014-09-21



Not very optimistic, but I have felt the feeling. A powerful statement, and sadly a true one.
2014-09-21