Cymbal nightsThe obnoxious undead
clearly have an agenda
when tidal scores
of absolute presence
roll across your circus floor.
Many faces are but masks
hiding the why from the going on
star eclipsed from the stained yes
where I and wishful perception
speak into a noisy wannabe void.
Clothes on a cloth line are sails
on a sunny shanty walk
where narrow leads to liquor
and a few moments of forgetfulness
listening to the radio.
Poetry by Bob
Read 866 times
Written on 2006-12-12 at 22:54
Tags Wannabe  Circus  Presence
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