To the mystery

Cringing cobalt dips into salt.
It is all a need of equality can voice
in times of ill prepared unity.

Sing song statements of good intentions
flow in dark folds, never assailed
by the ineffective fissures following
empty, burning phrases.

A dared skyline blows shifting ways
across dancehalls of pale queens
and tails that never fall behind.

Dandelion eruptions dare Never let go,
thrive in winds of flow snow
and all that May left behind.

Thus it is said: and this is true...
Call all girls of inventive ire
while I sit here alone, ok then, cerulean,
by a dark and felonious fire.

I have no part in bells undoing
and yet when all done is gone
with only I in its memory
I can only hope for a last slip
when straying sleep is all
one may deem relevant.

There must be more
to here and going,
to the story we call gasps
at the end of intention,
at the end of moving
from all, all gone.

I move with swarming Will be:
Om Mani Padme Hum!!!
Chant, pray and dance!
Hare human host and more!
Ave all mysteries man may marry.




Poetry by Bob
Read 542 times
Written on 2008-03-17 at 23:19

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