so often voices of the past

so often voices of the past
roll out of under heavy rocks
played by hard balls

at times I wish
that a different kind of hope
would settle the ancient score

other days I am pale flow
in a day dream hang
at the end of any street

flags are like used diapers
where the crazy ones delve
there is no I in the more

at the bottom still no I
only this constant farewell
and a world lost




Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2016-01-04 at 19:15

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Another poem another sad truth about life. We want we want we never get
2016-01-06