Afterword

Lit dungeons of snow spill
like warm funerals
a distant familiar light, yellow
to the eye that flutters in burnt umbra.

Night, a husk with a bright cover
of stars and unfulfilled intentions,
still gleams and beckons to I
and I can see the conclusion.

It is a fickle thing, this I
I am and always must,
one way or another,
maintain, or at least continue.

Choral night that bends perception,
I is what you have to live for
and I is all I and I have
in the meeting with portal waves.

Grand end that meets the silence.
Grand finale that has no answer,
I have no more see through solutions.
I am beginning to feel sleepy.





Poetry by Bob
Read 453 times
Written on 2010-12-05 at 11:44

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John Ashleigh
Immense. The mood, the language. This poem is so effective. I really like your work, Bob. I enjoy reading them all the time. Keep sharing!

Your friend,
John.
2010-12-05


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
your write a dark and souless scene in this work. I can feel the desolation.

Well written

Joe
2010-12-05