Night


Seldom right, always insisting;
is it a miracle, a song,
a wind of many letters
of all but the final say so,
an intention, a need,
a crave for viability?

Men of hay, men of straw,
men of dead innards,
march across squares
where needs are hovering
as a fly would.

Old days dance in void,
in lands jaded and lost,
an echo feeding here
in a wild spree.




Poetry by Bob
Read 506 times
Written on 2011-07-06 at 00:40

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