January 31, 2016



I could could guess  you’re just near the end.

Tho’, You’re  so  dour

You don’t even stir at yr own humour,

Or don’t/can’t you comprehend?


When you nightly set out

Under yr mighty moon

To brighten and heat

Yr best features,

Yr long face  goes  on & on,

Though the shadows are gone

And when you face yr  distant stare

It doesn’t stop

At dead stars

But goes to their backrow bleachers.


He’s aroused as the voices

In trees, on the breezes,

Distract him  post haste  w/ poetries,

They do extract his true face, those  ghosts in a wind.

Mostly,  They’ll  lift  him,

But their leverage runs thin.



.                          (2006)



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