Rewritten once again...


Why worry?


Talons of trepidation rip at soft dying skin,
at the very core of serene nihilistic sensibility,
whereas I, as it seemed, moved within,
in a state of long lost train station tranquillity.

I wish I was a withering pagoda height,
without any thoughts of besieged tomorrow.
That way I wouldn't be in the cuckoo's fight,
just someone you shouldn't steal to follow.




Poetry by Bob
Read 468 times
Written on 2009-03-16 at 20:33

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Kathy Lockhart
Bob, this is brilliant. The rhythm, rhyme, feel, flow. etc, etc. on and on. bookmarked! Today is a good day for poetry. : )
2009-03-17