A stab in the dark 7
7
Torched by fires of oblivion
he longs for water
in late rush hour cries
for the opium of hindsight,
for the ultimate here.
Memory is his only legacy
balancing on seas
with gravity falling in words
only condition may direct.
The other speaks.
"Long live extreme and august anger
uniting roaming packs
that crave mass destruction
with words of want
and swords that flash
in eloquent fashion.
Hot gain is far more exciting
than the anguish of poverty;
dark hearts speak louder
than unpaved streets.
Long live the voices
that pray for blood,
unforgiving instigators
of fear and obliteration."
Winter began with a blue gentleness,
dancing in soft circles of integrity;
peripheral crystals encouraged mild control
as a matter of being in charge.
All that he is and all he does
leaps at the touch of snow.
Morning is merely the name
of his white intentions.
Glowing in insidious times,
suspended like herons,
turning their curved, beady beaks
toward a final surf,
the old man dives into here
for a glimpse of harnessed light.
Calamities toll like shadows
in the eye of the witness.
Weight fills all recollection
with more than regret.
"Cry you hollow man;
the wind is in your shoes.
No one will follow you;
the echo of circular water
is only sand in a tumbler."
Daring dark day's profundity
the old man slows down,
facing inevitability.
The day's trying process collides
with his intention to express;
the dance subsides,
what must be said is lost.
The moment is caught
in the middle of a history
with the best of all intention.
The distance between what has been
and what will inevitably come
carries his name.
Webs within circles of distraction
often hold his attention
as day follows moon
on its way to forgetfulness.
The electric night,
with a baleful light,
is a watchful eye.
A dark smile
burns all intention,
the bit needed to light the hall;
a fuse goes.
Never looking back
he finds the wind irresistible.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1037 times
Written on 2011-09-02 at 23:16
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