I

Is there I,
a cry,
words without a sender?

Sea of red sun dials
willows by a river
full of fish.

Is there a who
when wind and voice
begs for sincerity?

Nights, deep in expression,
lost for words,
turn at the coming tide.

I embrace all I see.
All intention can be
is my understanding.

Sighs are yawns, are
all it takes to convince
whatever comes next.

I am the goodbye
of tomorrow's passing,
the forward now.

See me here, a garden
no man can claim,
nor name.

Frailty finally tilts
when flesh
meets the old system.




Poetry by Bob
Read 437 times
Written on 2011-03-31 at 09:37

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A poem thus befitting of feature in an art gallery or a poetry exposition. Brilliant imagery and visuals as well.
2011-04-01