Photo is from the fire ceremony at the Näsåker World Music Festival last August.
(My copyright)
Wearily
Wearily I hold onto these old, worn straps
that still cannot harness
this lost world contusion.
What secret word
can end insanity,
wreck confusion along the edges,
grin from ledges,
arresting all afterthought
in a single afternoon?
I fold my untold suns
into neat bundles of sorrow,
never whishing for more
than a painless, blue tomorrow.
A smile from a carnivore
is all I can expect,
a last dance with rejects
on battle field graves
while the wind breaks the door.
I see a paddle steamer
approaching in the mist,
a naked child that cries
for tissues and carnal tides,
for someone to stay.
A long purple finger points
back to the marshlands.
Only an old guitar
can break the morning.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1204 times
Written on 2007-02-05 at 23:50
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