Day after driven day he folds his futile fire,
all that lost middle sanity may scorn
in one given gestureâ€™s call.
Midnightâ€™s moon crossing is tender air
perpetuated by the transient ticking
of a burning boyâ€™s retreating heart.
All is contained in his makerâ€™s morning
where he stands by the wispy window,
cleansing the nebulous night of grief.
Teased by dark endâ€™s tell tale perusal
he falls windward into the wimpy grass,
viridian woods fade into black horse night.
The bellowing roar of stirred weary water
breaks his seaweed summerâ€™s wanton wake
discarding vacant shells and fish.
Never had a promise of forever
rolled morning into steeples and wine
with sea horse gods to plead with.
A boy so lost in views:
There never was more than a degree
of how close he is to you.
Poetry by Bob
Read 413 times
Written on 2006-07-03 at 23:18
Tags Midnight  Moon  Roar
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email