Parked

parked in a garden with bees
I dare to finalize the rocky torso
turning rain in late August
there is no relevant lament to go

pierced like a lobe or a lip at sea
rolled into bleak tomorrow
I cannot find any more to say
than translucent is my air

gargoyled and weathered
like a headstone on wire
I dream my options into night
no one will survive




Poetry by Bob
Read 255 times
Written on 2017-08-25 at 23:18

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text


Ashe
Pretty dark, but I love each stanza.
Ashe
2017-08-26