Yet another day 10
10
Dark designs fall in a park
calling for chimes.
The last sea
comes with anguish
and amethyst.
Denying death in lime,
in tiny cups
with sparrow blood,
he comes to winter's end
with tears and taste
of another soil.
Wispy darkness with bells
of unbroken promises,
nights of carelessness,
children plummeting into the sea,
all is full of continuous night.
The brush spills its figure
in pigments of imagination,
falls on a crimson canvas,
conceived in veracity
it taps on fibers that seek the light.
Time is old men's fear of waves
late at night when the piano
plays in a certain color.
All a free sailor can whish for
is one last night of sin
and a liquid resurrection of the child
that once rolled down soft hills
with innocence and warm winds.
Time is an erased line in a letter
no longer read in lit rooms
where ghosts of a symbolic past
wander in search of creed and pride.
Marble boys roll in expectations
down fading streets
of longing and stale air.
Liquid nights fall and fetter
scores of unborn tales
while you charge the floor
with hoses and death by brush.
Only yesterday there was a rent
in the frivolous face,
a tiny orchestra
tuned up at the threshold.
Love is a dead cat
buried in the woods.
There is a candle.
It is raining.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1144 times
Written on 2011-10-07 at 22:41
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