Swirls

Fictive images of now
beats a thin sacred cow
grazing in gutter sludge.
Remember, no grudge,
no bad feelings of why,
no remedies, don't cry.

Dark octopus collision
seeds your recognition,
feeds on fear gone stale,
on faces lost, gone pale.

Dream on you seeker,
you, lost to the squeaker,
searching in parks, no avail,
racing an inborn, a snail.




Poetry by Bob
Read 468 times
Written on 2011-04-04 at 21:56

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