Wreck

Talents wasted, voices
washed in weary tales,
booze and loss of memory;
perception crippled
in bars amongst the dead.

Jokes are often like excuses,
a curse that recurs
when least convenient,
a retreat, a break down,
an electric malfunction.

Weighed by years and wine,
by not hearing the herald,
signaling with red flags,
the wreck is rocked
to gentle sleep.




Poetry by Bob
Read 568 times
Written on 2011-07-02 at 00:01

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